OVER  GRASS-GROWN 
TRAILS 


KIOTE  BOOKS 

Over  Grass-Grown  Trails  (stories),  by 

Harry  Graves  Shedd       .  .  $1.00 

A  Gallery  of  Farmer  Girls  (verse),  by 

Schuyler  W.  Miller    .  .  .       i.oo 

Volume    I,  The  Kiote     .  .  .  i.oo 

Volume  II,  The  Kiote          .  .  .       i.oo 


IN   PREPARATION 

Kiote  Tales,  Number  I         .  .  1.25 


Over  Grass-Grown 
Trails 

HARRY   GRAVES    SHEDD 


LINCOLN,  NEB.,  U.  S.  A. 

THE  KIOTE  PUBLISHING  CO. 

MCM 


c 


Copyright,  1900 
By  HARRY  GRAVES  SHEDD 


This,  then,  is  a  little  book  of  Western 
Stories  by  Harry  Graves  Shedd,  of 
which  five  hundred  were  printed,  and 
the  number  of  this  volume  is 


ff 


TO3MY  MOTHER 


Lincoln,  Nebraska 
April,  1900 


CONTENTS 

Page 

After  Ten  Years             .            .            .  .13 

The  Coward              ....  45 

At  Dawn  of  Day           .            .            .  •    79 

The  Blizzard            .            .            .            .  iQZ 

Ashley       ......  119 

His  Love  for  the  People    .            .            .  129 

"Cherrybeak"  Stewart,  Barnacle     .  .  161 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS 
I 

T  the  sound  of  a  distant  whis- 
tle, four  men,  a  woman  in  black, 
and  a  boy  in  knickerbockers 
came  out  of  the  little  station 
and  stood  huddling  like  sheep  against 
the  whirling  snow  that  was  whipped 
across  the  tracks  and  lined  in  banks 
against  the  building. 

"Not  more'n  two  hours  late,  and 
that's  pretty  good  for  a  toy  engine 
buckin'  this  snow  up  from  the  river. 
The  superintendent  ought  to  know 
better — ought  to  extend  the  time  in 
winter." 

The  bus-driver  spoke  and  drew  his 
little  thin  face  deeper  into  his  upturned 
collar,  until  his  thin  bunch  of  chin- 
whiskers  stood  out  straight  like  a 
squirrel's  brush. 

"Expecting  anybody  in  to-night?" 
asked  one  of  the  men. 

"No.    Nobody  gone  away  for  two 
13  days. 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

days.  Business  in  my  line  thriving 
now  like  a  sody-fountain." 

The  train,  wheezing  and  choking, 
and  shooting  forth  intermittent  puffs 
of  yellow  light  from  the  smokestack, 
approached  the  station. 

"Traveling  east,  kid?"  one  of  the 
men  asked  of  the  boy. 

"  Hain't  got  my  trunk,  have  I  ?  "  was 
the  response. 

The  train  stopped.  The  woman  in 
black  stepped  forward  toward  the  steps 
of  the  car,  but  the  brakeman  held  her 
back  a  moment  while  an  elderly  man 
in  a  long  gray  ulster  stepped  down.  In 
the  light  from  the  car-windows  the  four 
men  recognized  him.  The  gray  hair, 
the  clean-shaven  face,  the  firm,  close- 
set  lips,  with  an  unlighted  cigar  stuck 
"wrong-end-to"  between  them,  were 
unmistakable. 

"Rockwell — by  God!"  one  of  them 
said  half  aloud,  and  all  four  drew  back 
closer  to  the  shadow  of  the  building. 
As  the  stranger  came  nearer  the  bus, 
the  driver  edged  toward  him  reluctantly 
and  opened  the  door. 

"  White's  or  The  Clifton?"  the  driver 
asked. 

"  Which  was  the  old  Holden  House? 

White's?    Thank  you;   I  didn't  know 

14  they'd 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

they'd  changed  names.  It  isn't  too  late 
for  supper,  I  suppose?" 

"  No.  Always  wait  for  this  train  at 
White's." 

As  the  driver  spoke  and  was  closing 
the  door,  the  stranger  stopped  him. 

"  Hold  on  there.  Here's  my  check — 
a  small  brown  valise,  rather  old.  And, 
I  say,  isn't  this  Jim  Powers?  Why,  of 
course  you  are.  How  are  you,  any- 
way? Remember  me?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Powers,  surlily, 
looking  away;  and  then  under  his 
breath,  "Damned  few  don't — and  no 
good  of  you,  either." 

"Well,  you  haven't  changed  much 
since  I  left.  Have  a  cigar?  " 

The  driver  took  the  weed  and  put  it 
carefully  into  his  outside  pocket. 

"Come  on,  boy,"  he  called;  and  the 
two  climbed  to  the  box,  and  the  vehicle 
rattled  along  the  frozen  road,  over  the 
bridge  spanning  the  dark  little  stream 
below,  across  the  bottoms  where  the 
town  had  been  in  the  early  days,  and 
up  the  higher  land  to  the  residence 
portion  of  the  place. 

"Say,  Jim,"  asked  the  boy  finally, 
looking  up  at  the  man  beside  him, 
"who's  that  inside?" 

"  That?  That's  Rockwell.  Left  here 
13  'bout 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

'bout  ten  years  ago.  Your  dad  knows 
him  well  enough — too  well,  perhaps. 
Ask  him.  Git  up  there,  Barney,  you 
plague-goned,  knock-kneed,  tumble- 
down old  heifer.  Him?  Why,  kid,  that 
man  hasn't  a  friend  in  this  whole  town. 
Hasn't  dared  to  show  his  face  here  for 
ten  years.  He's  the  man  that — but 
here  we  are,  kid.  More  lively  now! 
It's  damnation  cold." 

Before  a  large  brick  house  set  well 
in  among  evergreens,  and  from  the 
windows  of  which  lights  shone  out 
brightly  through  the  falling  snow,  the 
bus  stopped  and  the  boy  let  himself 
down. 

"  Just  tell  your  old  man  about  him," 
beckoning  with  his  thumb.  "He'll  be 
glad  to  know  it — oh,  I  bet  he  will." 

The  boy  stood  still  in  the  storm  until 
the  lumbering  coach  had  quite  disap- 
peared from  sight,  and  then  went  into 
the  house.  Boy-fashion,  he  burst,  snow- 
covered,  into  the  sitting-room,  where 
his  father  sat  smoking  before  the  grate. 
At  the  man's  unsmiling  face  he  stopped 
short. 

"  Well?"  said  the  father,  coldly. 

"  Rockwell's  come  back,"  he  blurted 
out. 

"What!"  The  man's  cold,  steely 
16  eyes 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

eyes  were  upon  the  boy,  who  drew 
back  to  the  door. 

"Rockwell's  come  back — Jim  Pow- 
ers said  it  was  him — told  me  to  tell 
you." 

The  man's  gaze  left  the  boy,  and 
getting  up  he  walked  back  and  forth 
before  the  grate  like  a  startled  tiger. 
Looking  up  after  a  moment  he  saw  the 
boy  still  standing  by  the  door. 

"Oh,  are  you  here  yet?  You  go  to 
bed." 

William  A.  Davidson,  Jr.,  President 
of  the  James  County  Savings  Bank 
and  Manager  of  the  Western  Loan 
and  Building  Association,  continued  to 
walk  the  floor.  All  through  the  night 
he  paced  back  and  forth,  or  threw  him- 
self into  his  chair,  to  rise  and  pace 
again,  and  the  next  morning  Sarah,  the 
dining-room  girl,  reported  to  the  cook 
that  the  master  was  up  uncommon 
early  for  him. 


II 

IOCKWELL  had  a  scheme  that 
filled  his  head,  a  plan  that 
meant  much  to  his  native  town, 
he  felt,  if  the  town  would  accept 
it,  and  he  planned  to  take  his  project 
direct  to  the  leading  citizen  of  the 
place  —  the  President  of  the  James 
County  Savings  Bank  and  the  Manager 
of  the  Western  Loan  and  Trust  Com- 
pany. After  breakfast  he  went  over  to 
the  bank,  and  found  the  young  man  who 
acted  jointly  as  janitor  and  bookkeeper 
just  opening  the  doors  for  business. 

"He  should  be  in  now,"  was  the  reply 
of  the  young  man  to  Rockwell's  ques- 
tion. "He's  generally  down  as  soon  as 
we  open  up,  sometimes  ahead  of  Albers." 
Albers  was  a  new  name  to  Rock- 
well, and  he  put  it  down  to  the  cashier. 
And  when  an  oldish  young  man,  with 
shrewd,  nervous  eyes  and  long  hairy 
hands,  came  in  and  went  behind  the 
iron  grating,  his  face  was  also  unknown 
to  him. 
18  "Anything 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you  this 
morning?"  the  cashier  asked  of  Rock- 
well, who  had  backed  up  against  the 
public  writing-board  attached  to  the 
wall. 

"I'm  waiting  for  Mr.  Davidson 
merely." 

"Then  step  into  his  office.  He'll  be 
here  soon." 

Rockwell  took  off  his  overcoat  and 
hat  and  entered  the  den-like  corner, 
hedged  off  from  the  rest  of  the  inclos- 
ure  as  well  as  the  outer  office,  and  yet 
commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  room. 
He  dropped  into  an  easy-chair  and 
looked  about  him.  During  his  absence 
change  had  worked  slowly  there.  The 
dark-brown  wallpaper  was  dingier  and 
dirtier,  a  new  fire-insurance  picture 
hung  against  the  west  wall;  a  bit  of  new 
carpet  had  been  tacked  on  the  floor  of 
this  little  office,  and  a  low  sash-curtain 
was  stretched  across  the  windowpane. 
There  was  a  glass  panel  in  the  door  he 
had  entered,  and  across  it  the  word 
"Private." 

The  main  street,  typifying  the  town, 
showed  no  alterations,  except  those  of 
age.  The  same  monotonous  row  of 
frame  store-buildings  lined  the  opposite 
side,  some  with  wooden  porches  cpn- 
19  taining 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

taining  rusty  -  looking  barrels  and 
weather-stained  boxes,  some  with 
large  painted  signs,  and  some  without. 
A  few  were  tenantless.  At  the  end  of 
the  block  stood  the  barn-like  brick 
Opera  House,  with  its  torn  blue  cur- 
tains in  the  upper  windows,  frowning 
down  upon  the  muddy,  slushy  street 
below,  where  drooping  horses  plodded 
wearily,  drawing  rickety  spring-wag- 
ons, and  driven  by  slouching,  rough- 
clad  men.  But  sordid  and  monotonous 
and  uninviting  as  it  all  appeared,  the 
scene  brought  to  the  man  gazing  from 
the  bank  window  a  feeling  of  rest  and 
home-content  unknown  for  years. 

Davidson  entered  the  bank.  He  nod- 
ded to  the  cashier  and  the  boy,  and 
turned  toward  his  private  office.  He 
stopped  short  and  suddenly  went  white 
about  the  lips. 

"Oh,  Rockwell?  How  are  you?"  he 
said,  quickly  recovering  himself.  "How 
are  you,  anyway?  I  heard  you  were 
here.  My  son  saw  you  get  off  the  train 
last  night.  But  I  had  not  expected  you 
over  here  so  early.  So  you  see  it's  a  sur- 
prise you've  given  me,  after  all.  Where 
are  you  putting  up?  White's?  Good 
place,  and  Melton,  the  proprietor,  does 
his  business  with  us.  So  sorry  we 
20  can't 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

can't  entertain  you  during  your  visit, 
but  Mrs.  Davidson  is  away — gone  down 
to  her  sister's  at  the  Forks  for  a  week. 
You  see  how  it  is." 

"That's  all  right,  Davidson,"  Rock- 
well replied,  hastily;  "I'm  not  here 
visiting  this  time.  Say,  I  have  your 
chair.  Take  it  and  I'll  sit  over  here. 
This  feels  more  like  the  one  I  had  ten 
years  ago.  I  always  liked  the  straight 
ones  best,  you  know.  You  haven't 
changed  things  much  about,  I  see." 

"No,  times  have  been  too  hard  for 
much  internal  improvement.  Just  be- 
ginning to  get  on  our  feet  again  now," 
the  President  replied,  hedgingly.  "But 
what's  brought  you  back  here  now? 
Since  you  say  you  are  not  visiting,  you 
arouse  my  curiosity." 

The  two  men  faced  about  so  as  to 
meet  each  other  squarely.  Rockwell 
sat  straight  in  his  chair,  while  David- 
son leaned  back  easily  and  watched 
him  with  narrowed  eyes. 

"Well,  it's  this.  I've  a  thing  here 
that'll  put  me  on  my  feet  again,  and 
make  big  money  for  every  man  that 
goes  into  it.  I've  been  working  it  out 
in  my  head  ever  since  I  went  away,  ten 
years  ago.  It's  been  buzzing  round  in 
my  brain  longer'n  that — in  fact,  since  I 
21  came 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

came  West  and  found  out  about  this 
particular  piece  of  land.  You  know  the 
place — out  at  Hendry's  farm,  six  miles 
west.  A  year  or  so  before  the  crash 
came  I  looked  into  it  pretty  carefully. 
I  had  the  ponds  examined  and  the  soil 
analyzed  by  a  chemist,  and  it's  all  right 
for  what  I  want  to  do.  I  want  your  help 
to  start  me." 

"Well,  go  ahead,  Rockwell.  Tell  me 
all  about  it.  It  sounds  good  so  far." 

"It's  simply  this,"  began  the  older 
man,  drawing  his  chair  nearer,  drop- 
ping his  hat  on  the  floor,  and  leaning 
forward,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees. 
He  talked  slowly,  with  the  ease  and 
confidence  of  a  man  who  has  every 
detail  of  his  project  well  in  hand,  demon- 
strating the  absolute  success -of  the 
undertaking  and  the  fortune  awaiting 
its  projectors.  The  plan  had  been 
worked  out  with  mature  judgment  and 
after  careful  investigation,  and  shrewd 
and  cautious  as  he  was,  the  banker 
could  find  no  flaw  in  it.  His  trained  busi- 
ness mind  grasped  every  point  in  the 
plan,  and  he  admired  its  conception. 

Yet  William  A.  Davidson,  Jr.,  the 
banker,  was  surprised.  He  had  not 
expected  this  from  Rockwell,  but  a  far 
different  thing.  His  mind  traveled  back 

22  tO 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

to  certain  transactions  that  had  passed 
between  the  two  ten  years  before.  He 
had  made  some  promises  to  Rockwell, 
and  then  Rockwell  had  gone  away  with 
the  wrath  of  the  town  heavy  upon  him. 
Hatred  was  too  mild  a  word  with  which 
to  characterize  that  wrath.  Those 
promises  Davidson  had  not  fulfilled. 
Those  first  years  he  had  been  strained 
to  every  nerve  with  the  reorganization 
of  the  bank,  and  then  later  he  had  been 
busy  with  the  formation  of  his  loan  and 
trust  company,  so  that  gradually  his 
unfulfilled  pledges  had  been  pushed 
farther  and  farther  back  into  the  deep 
recesses  of  his  conscience.  There  they 
had  lain  until  so  rudely  jarred  by  his 
son's  unexpected  words  of  the  night 
before. 

Quite  a  different  thing,  then,  had  he 
expected  than  this  quiet,  gentlemanly 
explanation  of  a  promoter's  scheme. 
While  he  had  walked  his  sitting-room 
during  the  small  hours  of  that  morning 
he  had  pictured  a  scene  with  a  far  more 
stormy  setting.  He  had  thought  that 
Rockwell  had  returned  to  make  certain 
claims  upon  him,  and  now  he  was 
amazed  at  the  apparent  childishness  of 
the  man  before  him.  Had  their  posi- 
tions been  reversed,  how  differently  he 
23  would 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

would  have  managed  the  thing,  how 
speedily  he  would  have  settled  ac- 
counts. Then  he  saw  that  he  had  been 
tricked  by  his  memory  and  its  sudden 
awakening  into  a  false  estimate  of  his 
former  friend's  nerve.  Really  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  in  this  dreamer,  so 
weak,  so  undevoted  to  action.  He 
might  have  known  it  from  the  easy  way 
in  which  Rockwell  had  accepted  his 
proposition  ten  years  ago,  had  played 
the  wheel  of  fortune  into  his  hands,  and 
had  gone  away  and  lived  as  one  dead 
to  the  town. 

Rockwell  talked  on,  but  the  banker 
heard  little  of  it.  His  thoughts  were 
tumbling  over  each  other  along  another 
bent.  Why  not  beat  this  dream-fool  at 
his  own  play?  The  project  was  good. 
There  were  thousands  in  it  certainly. 
Why  not  reap  them  himself?  Dame 
Fortune  was  his  mistress  now.  She 
had  deserted  the  other  man  ten  years 
before. 

Rockwell  still  continued  quietly,  per- 
suasively. Yes,  he  could  do  it,  David- 
son thought,  and  so  simply  too.  The 
town  was  at  his  beck  and  call.  The 
merchants  and  the  wealthy  farmers  of 
the  locality  followed  him  in  matters 
financial.  He  knew  every  pulse-beat  of 
34  their 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

their  business,  every  venture  they 
made,  almost  their  very  thought.  Then, 
too,  he  knew  well  that  the  old  senti- 
ment of  ten  years  ago  against  Rock- 
well had  not  died  out.  It  still  slumbered. 
The  people  forget  slowly.  They  might 
not  attempt  again  to  mob  the  man,  but 
they  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him 
unless  the  bank  willed  it.  He  had  sim- 
ply to  wait,  to  play  the  line  in  and  out, 
until  the  other  was  exhausted.  A  smile 
of  evil  joy  swept  over  his  face. 

Rockwell  had  ceased,  and  was  look- 
ing at  the  street. 

"Yes?  And  how  will  you  raise  the 
money?"  asked  the  President  of  the 
bank. 

"By  sale  of  stock,"  replied  Rockwell 
with  confidence;  "shares  of  ten  dollars 
each.  I  intend  to  raise  all  the  money 
right  here  in  town.  Not  a  cent  of  the 
profit  need  go  out  of  the  place." 

"It's  a  good  idea,  Rockwell,"  replied 
the  bank  President,  "a  capital  idea, 
and  at  first  thought  I  favor  it;  but  I 
want  time  to  think  it  over,  for  it's  too 
big  a  deal  to  take  all  in  a  jump.  Now, 
you  must  go  and  see  the  other  fellows. 
Take  it  easy,  one  at  a  time,  and  make 
each  one  keep  it  dark  a  few  days  un- 
til you've  sounded  'em  all.  Come  in 
25  to-morrow 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

to-morrow,  and  we'll  talk  it  over 
again." 

"  Yes,  I'll  come  in  again,"  said  Rock- 
well, slowly,  taking  his  hat  from  the 
floor;  "I  have  lots  to  say  yet — a  great 
deal,  indeed." 

The  bank  President  did  not  go  to 
the  door  with  him,  as  would  have  been 
natural  with  an  old  friend,  but  bowed 
him  out  of  the  private  office,  and  then 
smiled  to  himself  as  the  older  man 
went  down  the  steps.  Rockwell  had 
aged  greatly  since  he  went  away,  he 
thought;  and  he  smiled  again  in  a  sat- 
isfied way. 

"Albers,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
cashier,  "Albers,  I  want  you  to  write  to 
Eraser  at  once  asking  for  an  abstract 
of  the  Hendry  lands — that  part  with  the 
ponds  and  lakes  on  it — and  then  after 
the  office  closes  this  afternoon  ride  out 
and  buy  an  option  on  its  purchase,  but 
not  to  exceed  five  hundred  dollars.  Let 
me  know  the  first  thing  in  the  morning 
how  you  come  out." 

Davidson  sat  down  before  his  desk 
and  gazed  at  the  calendar-pad  absently. 

"Yes,    yes,"    he    said,   tapping    his 

fingers  on  the  top  of  the  desk,  "that 

must  be  the  land.    When  I  was  a  boy 

there  was  'keel'  in  the  old  cave.    And, 

26  yes, 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

yes,  I  remember  I  saw  Rockwell  poking 
around  there  one  Sunday,  jabbing  the 
clay  with  his  cane.  That  must  be  the 
place.  It's  the  only  place  large  enough 
to  work  on  such  a  scale  as  he  pro- 
poses." 

Davidson  then  called  the  young 
bookkeeper  to  him. 

"William,  go  'round  to  the  officers 
of  the  bank  and  the  directors  of  the 
company,  and  tell  them  there  will  be  a 
call  meeting — important,  too — at  eleven. 
Get  every  one  of  'em.  D'you  hear?" 

Like  a  rumor  of  evil  tidings,  Rock- 
well's presence  had  preceded  him,  and 
from  every  business  man  who  had  been 
his  friend  in  the  old  days  before  the 
trouble  he  received  a  chilly  greeting. 
Their  labored  efforts  to  conceal  their 
feelings  for  him,  their  distrust  and  in- 
civility, were  equally  humorous  and 
disgusting.  He  told  each  his  plan,  not 
following  the  banker's  suggestion,  but 
putting  it  fair  and  square.  The  answers 
were  all  the  same,  all  indefinite,  each 
listener  apparently  interested,  but  post- 
poning final  decision. 

"Too  big  a  thing  to  handle  at  one 

toss,"    replied    Morton,    the    lawyer; 

"  push  me  hard  to  get  the  money  right 

now,  too,  but  I'll  think  it  over." 

27  "Let 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

"Let  you  know  in  a  day  or  two," 
said  Greigh,  the  leading  dry-goods 
merchant.  "You  couldn't  have  hit  me 
at  a  harder  time  of  the  year.  The  thing 
seems  all  O.  K.  though,  and  if  I  go  in  I 
guess  I  can  raise  the  cash  somewhere." 

"Not  by  a  damned  sight.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  about  it  at  all,  not  at  all," 
was  the  reply  of  the  real  estate  dealer, 
who  abruptly  left  Rockwell  standing  in 
the  street. 

"Got  Davidson?"  asked  a  farmer 
who  managed  to  live  in  town  the  year 
around  from  the  rent  of  six  farms. 
"You  haven't?  Well,  just  you  get  him 
first.  I  don't  go  in  anything  else  he's 
there.  You  can  bet  your  life  away  on 
that." 

Rockwell  left  the  farmer  and  climbed 
to  the  office  of  a  leading  doctor  of  the 
town,  a  large  man  with  a  florid  nose 
and  a  fragrant  breath,  and  began  to 
explain  his  plan. 

"Now,  Mr.  Rockwell,"  put  in  the 
doctor  quickly,  "you  step  right  out  of 
here,  please.  I  don't  care  to  listen  to 
you.  I  listened  to  you  once,  sir,  and  I'd 
a  lost  every  cent  if  I  hadn't  taken  fifty 
per  cent  from  Davidson.  No,  sir;  I 
want  nothing  to  do  with  you  or  your 
likes." 
28  Rockwell 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

Rockwell  tried  no  more  that  fore- 
noon, but  went  back  to  the  hotel  for  his 
dinner.  Then,  after  smoking  a  cigar, 
he  paid  a  visit  to  one  other  man, 
Thomas  Grimby,  editor  and  publisher 
of  the  local  paper,  The  Weekly  Times. 
As  Rockwell  entered,  Grimby  arose, 
and  wiping  his  hands  on  his  trousers, 
took  off  his  green  eye-shade. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Rockwell,"  he  said 
heartily,  wringing  the  other's  hand, 
Rockwell's  first  true  welcome  that  day. 
"Here,  sit  over  in  this  chair.  I'm  all 
cramped  up,  and  want  to  lean  against 
something  and  give  my  legs  a  chance 
to  even  up  again. 

When  Rockwell  began  to  tell  his 
errand  the  other  stopped  him  by  a 
wave  of  the  hand. 

"Heard  all  about  it.  We  talked  it 
over  at  the  bank-meeting  this  morning. 
Davidson  called  us  together  on  pur- 
pose. He  talked  in  favor  of  it,  and  yet 
he  said  it  wouldn't  do  to  take  the  lead. 
Thought  we  ought  to  wait  and  see 
how  you  came  out.  He  said  he  wasn't 
sure  the  people  had  confidence  in  you. 
Wanted  to  wait  and  find  out.  Was 
afraid  they  wouldn't  trust  a  man  who 
had  pretty  nearly  ruined  them  once. 
Said  a  burnt  child  didn't  monkey  with 
29  the 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

the  fire  more'n  once,  you  know,  and  all 
that  sort  of  rot." 

"Did  he  say  that?"  asked  Rockwell, 
quickly. 

"Yes.  Then  I  said  a  few  things  to 
set  you  right,  but  it  didn't  work.  They 
were  all  against  you  from  the  start, 
every  son  of  a  gun.  I  didn't  like  David- 
son's way  of  putting  it,  for  I  could  see 
that  your  scheme's  a  spanker  and  a 
big  thing  for  every  mother's  son  in  this 
end  of  the  county.  I  don't  mind  saying 
to  you,  either,  that  there's  little  love  lost 
'tween  Davidson  and  me,  for  I  don't 
like  some  of  his  ways  of  conducting 
business,  and  he  knows  it.  I'm  new  on 
the  board,  you  know,  but  I'm  catching 
on  rather  fast  for  my  age,  and  if  things 
aren't  being  run  right  in  there,  I'll  make 
people  know  it  if  I  bust  The  Times 
a-telling  them." 

Rockwell  smiled,  and  the  editor 
went  on. 

"I'm  with  you.  I  haven't  forgotten 
some  things  you  did  for  me  when  I  was 
starting  here,  and  the  way  you  carried 
me  against  odds  for  a  year  and  a  half. 
I've  made  some  money,  and  I'll  sign  for 
a  hundred  shares  now,  and  perhaps 
more  a  little  later  on.  And,  remember, 
30  The 


AFTER  TEN   YEARS 

The  Times  is  yours  for  booming  this 
thing  just  as  much  as  you  please." 

"Thank  you,  Grimby,"  replied  Rock- 
well, arising  to  go;  "I'll  bring  in  my 
first  copy  to-morrow  afternoon.  It  will 
be  something  about  this  new  enter- 
prise, or  a  story  about  a  certain  bank 
ten  years  ago.  It  will  be  interesting 
reading,  whatever  it  is." 


Ill 

BOUT  six  o'clock  the  next 
morning  Rockwell  arose,  and 
in  the  morning  starlight  drove 
out  to  Hendry's  place  and  had 
a  talk  with  the  farmer.  He  then  drove 
back  to  town  in  time  for  breakfast,  and 
the  morning  meal  finished,  stood  in  the 
hotel  window,  smoking  and  looking  out 
upon  the  street,  where  the  snow  was 
falling  again. 

The  bank  across  the  way  was  not 
yet  opened.  The  doors  were  closed, 
the  curtains  down,  but  Rockwell  saw 
the  President  coming  down  the  side 
street.  Throwing  away  his  cigar- 
stump,  the  promoter  pulled  on  his  over- 
coat, from  which  the  ends  of  two  legal- 
looking  papers  protruded,  and  walked 
across  to  meet  him. 

"  I  thought  you'd  be  down  early,"  the 
older  man  said;  "you  always  were  the 
first;  and  I  want  to  talk  with  you  before 
anybody  comes  in  and  disturbs  us." 

Surprise  struggled  in  the  other's 
32  eyes, 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

eyes,  but  he  led  the  way  into  the  bank, 
closed  and  locked  the  door  after  them, 
and  then  turned  toward  the  private 
office. 

"No,"  said  Rockwell,  quietly,  "we'll 
go  into  the  back  room.  The  others 
coming  in  won't  interrupt  us  there." 

Davidson  stopped  short,  distrust 
openly  written  on  his  face. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?  What's 
there  so  secret  about  it?" 

"  I  have  a  good  many  things  to  say, 
and  I  don't  want  anybody  to  hear  but 
you." 

Rockwell's  voice  was  calm,  clear, 
and  cheerful,  and  he  smiled  openly  and 
pleasantly;  but  a  sickening  fear,  a  pre- 
sentiment of  approaching  evil,  crept 
into  the  banker's  heart.  He  could  not 
refuse  the  request,  and  the  two  men 
went  into  the  back  room  set  aside  for 
directors'  meetings  and  very  private 
business.  It  was  a  bare  room,  with  two 
or  three  chairs,  a  leather  lounge,  and  a 
table  in  the  center,  on  which  were  scat- 
tered a  few  blank  notes  and  some  pens 
and  blotting-pads. 

"Well,  Rockwell,  how's  it  going?" 

Davidson    had    resumed    his  usual 

manner  again.    He  seated  himself  and 

leaned  back  in  the  chair,  his  hands  in 

33 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

his  pockets,  his  eyes  watching  the 
other  narrowly.  Rockwell  took  off  his 
overcoat  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 
The  ends  of  the  papers  protruded 
from  the  pocket  on  the  upper  side. 

"I  am  not  making  progress  rapidly, 
though  I  think  I  shall  after  to-day. 
Everybody  seems  afraid  of  the  business 
and  waiting  on  somebody  else.  They 
all  admit  it's  a  good  thing  enough,  but 
are  afraid  to  venture.  Perhaps  they 
are  afraid  of  me.  It  wasn't  that  way  in 
the  old  days." 

The  speaker  turned  to  the  window  a 
moment,  and  a  little  smile  stole  across 
Davidson's  face. 

"Yes,  they  are  skittish  now,"  he  an- 
swered. "You  see,  when  we  first  came 
out  here  the  country  was  new,  and  we 
were  all  like  young  colts,  dead  anxious 
to  have  a  'go'  at  anything  that  prom- 
ised well.  The  'hard  times'  have  damp- 
ened us  a  little,  made  us  more  cautious 
and  careful.  I  saw  that  clearly  yester- 
day when  I  incidentally  put  your  project 
before  the  officers  of  the  bank.  All  of 
them  but  Grimby  wanted  to  wait  and 
investigate  and  see  what  the  town 
would  do,  but  I  hope  to  bring  'em  'round 
shortly,  for  it's  a  great  thing.  When 
the  time  comes  you  can  count  on  me." 
34  "  But 


AFTER   TEN    YEARS 

"But  the  time's  right  now,  and  I 
need  your  name  on  the  paper  to  start 
the  ball  going." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see,"  replied  Davidson; 
"but  I  can't  do  anything  until  the 
directors  make  a  decision.  You  know 
how  that  is  yourself— how  the  head  of 
an  institution  by  personally  doing  such 
a  thing  runs  the  risk  of  involving  the 
whole  bank.  I  can't  do  that." 

Rockwell  sat  quite  still,  with  so  in- 
tense a  gaze  upon  the  other  that 
Davidson  could  not  meet  it. 

"You'll  have  to  nurse  'em  along  a 
little,"  Davidson  went  on,  lamely,  with 
averted  eyes;  "you  can't  do  this  thing 
in  a  rush.  It  will  take  us  a  week  to 
work  it  up.  You  keep  after  the  mer- 
chants. I'll  prod  up  the  officers  of  the 
bank.  We  can  make  it  a  success,  I'm 
sure,  you  and  I  together." 

"No,  sir,  Davidson,"  Rockwell  an- 
swered, emphatically.  "This  is  all  my 
scheme,  my  own,  and  nobody  gets  in 
on  it  except  for  stock.  I  want  that  un- 
derstood distinctly." 

Silence  fell  upon  the  two.  Rockwell 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  other,  who 
straightened  up  and  moved  nervously 
about  in  his  chair. 

"I  suppose  you  have  an  option  on 
35  the 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

the  land?"  Davidson  asked,  as  if  to 
relieve  the  embarrassment. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  that?"  Rockwell 
did  not  know  that  the  cashier  had  not 
yet  reported  to  the  bank  President  of 
his  visit  to  the  Hendry  lands. 

"It  would  be  the  natural  thing  to  do. 
Somebody  might  gobble  up  the  land 
and  do  the  same  thing  with  it  that  you 
propose." 

"Yes,"  said  Rockwell,  slowly;  and 
from  the  agitation  in  his  voice  the  other 
could  feel  the  speaker's  effort  to  con- 
trol himself.  "Yes,  that's  true.  For- 
tunately, I  thought  of  that  long  ago, 
and  have  had  an  option  upon  it  for 
years.  One  man  I  told  my  scheme  to 
has  tried  that  sort  of  thing — just  one. 
He  went  back  on  me — just  one." 

Rockwell  ceased,  but  Davidson  could 
not  ask  the  question. 

"Just  one  man  who  lives  right  here 
in  this  town  and  whom  I  made.  He 
is  the  only  man  capable  of  such  a 
cowardly,  sneaking  deed.  You  know 
the  cur;  you  know  him  well.  -His 
name  is  William  A.  Davidson,  Jr.,  and 
he  tried  to  get  hold  of  the  land  last 
night." 

Davidson's  whole  face  went  white, 

and  his  jaw  hung  loose  and  nerveless. 

36  All 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

All  the  fury  of  Rockwells'  subdued 
nature  broke  loose. 

"You  tried  it  yesterday  after  I  left 
you.  You  sent  Albers  out  there.  Hen- 
dry  told  me  this  morning.  You  can't 
deny  that.  What's  more,  you  have  set 
the  bank  officers  against  me.  I  know 
your  scheme.  You  want  to  freeze  me 
out.  I  could  read  your  mind  during  all 
my  talk  yesterday.  Don't  you  think  I 
know  you?  I  knew  you  pretty  well 
when  I  went  away,  but  I  know  you  bet- 
ter now,  a  heap  better.  Don't  you  think 
I've  counted  on  this  a  little  ?  Why,  man, 
you're  as  easy  to  see  through  as  a 
child.  I've  met  propositions  a  damned 
sight  harder  than  you.  You're  like  a 
sieve.  I  know  your  hold  on  the  town, 
for  I  had  it  myself  once.  But  I  wanted 
to  try  'em  first.  I  wanted  to  see  if  my 
being  president  of  this  bank  for  fifteen 
years  would  make  any  difference.  But 
it  don't.  This  thing  means  thousands 
to  this  place.  But  primarily  I  don't 
care  a  continental  about  that.  It's 
to  put  me  on  my  feet  again,  right  here 
in  this  town  that  I  left  ten  years  ago. 
And  you're  going  to  give  the  first 
boost  by  taking  a  thousand  shares  of 
stock ! " 

Davidson  was  up  now,  his  fingers 
37  working 


AFTER   TEN    YEARS 

working  nervously,  an  evil  light  in  his 
green  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  he  said,  in  a  shrill 
voice.  "  Not  if  I  know  myself.  I  would 
have  helped  you  in  time,  but  not  now. 
I'll  see  you  in  hell's  fire  first.  Yes,  I 
have  a  hold  on  the  place.  You'll  never 
get  a  cent  if  I  can  help  it.  You'll  find 
me  bucking  you  at  every  move,  dogging 
every  step  you  take.  You  can't  squeeze 
me." 

"Well,  we'll  see  about  that.  David- 
son, sit  down.  I  have  some  other  things 
to  say  yet."  Rockwell  was  calm  again, 
and  he  drew  the  two  papers  from  the 
overcoat  pocket. 

"  Ten  years  ago,  you  will  remember, 
I  was  president  of  this  bank,  and  you 
were  cashier.  At  your  urgent  request  I 
invested  for  you  ten  thousand  dollars  of 
your  wife's  money.  I  didn't  want  to  do 
it,  but  you  begged  so  hard  I  couldn't  re- 
fuse. Then  the  crash  came.  There  is 
no  need  to  go  into  details.  You  remem- 
ber all  about  that.  We  were  sound 
enough  if  we  had  had  time  to  realize 
upon  our  paper,  but  that  Omaha  bank 
tied  us  tight.  We  were  temporarily 
paralyzed,  and — well,  there  were  a  few 
days  of  that  week  that  aged  us  like 
years.  We  saw  men  crazed  like  wild 
38  beasts, 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

beasts,  frantic  and  mad.  You  couldn't 
reason  with  a  mother's  son  of  'em.  The 
picture  of  that  howling  mob  of  men  and 
women  before  the  bank,  beating  in  the 
doors  and  hurling  stones  through  the 
windows,  has  never  left  me.  They  were 
the  very  men  I  had  carried  for  years. 
But  they  were  angels  compared  with 
you !  Wrought  up  as  I  was,  you  came 
to  me  that  night,  and  brought  your  wife. 
We  came  back  into  this  room,  and  you 
both  broke  down  about  your  money,  and 
cried  like  children,  and  made  a  tolera- 
bly bad  muss  of  it  all  'round.  I  said  I 
could  save  it  if  you'd  give  me  time,  but 
you  would  not  do  it.  You  twisted  me 
hard  then.  I  had  no  family,  and  you 
had,  and  for  their  sakes  I  gave  in.  I 
made  over  my  interests  to  you,  and 
asked  that  you  be  made  receiver  of  the 
bank.  It  was  a  great  opportunity  for 
you.  The  bank  was  sound  enough,  God 
knows.  The  town  was  good,  too — no 
boom  about  it.  In  two  years  you  had 
things  straightened  out.  In  three  more 
you  formed  your  Loan  and  Trust  com- 
pany. Oh,  it  was  a  great  thing  for  you!" 
Rockwell  stopped.  He  was  standing 
by  the  table.  Davidson  had  arisen,  pale 
and  trembling,  passion  and  fear  strug- 
gling in  his  face. 
39  "Well," 


AFTER  TEN  YEARS 

"Well,"  that's  all  true,"  he  said, 
hoarsely.  "What  of  it?  That  was 
ten  years  ago." 

"  What  of  it  ?  Simply  this  ;  I  don't 
know  how  clean  you've  been  in  the  bank 
affairs.  I  don't  care.  I'm  out  of  that. 
That  night  you  made  me  a  promise. 
There  was  nothing  in  writing,  for  I  had 
faith  in  you  then.  You  promised  me  if 
things  turned  out  well  to  pay  me  ten 
thousand  dollars  for  my  share  of  the  bus- 
iness. Have  you  paid  it  ?  No.  There's 
no  going  to  law ;  for  that  wouldn't  do 
any  good.  The  whole  town's  against 
me;  yes,  the  whole  county  and  the  whole 
state's  against  the  men  who  were  bank- 
ers then.  We're  like  lepers.  I've  found 
only  one  friend  here,  Grimby,  and  he's 
with  me  to  the  finish.  Now,  I've  come 
back  for  that  ten  thousand  dollars,  and 
propose  to  get  it.  I  give  you  a  chance 
to  make  a  profit  on  the  money,  but  I 
want  you  to  sign  for  that  stock  in  this 
mineral  paint  scheme.  You'll  start  me 
in  this  thing  to  make  up  for  what  you 
have  done  to  me  in  all  these  years." 

Davidson  felt  the  vise.  Perspiration 
stood  out  upon  his  forehead  and  his 
upper  lip.  He  had  slipped  down  into 
the  chair  again,  weak  and  limp. 

"  You'll  sign  this  paper,  and  head  the 
40  list, 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

list,  or  I'll  take  this  other  paper,  which 
tells  the  whole  story,  to  Grimby.  It 
would  make  pretty  interesting  reading, 
wouldn't  it  ?  Yes,  ten  thousand  dollars, 
the  amount  you  promised  me,  and  I'm 
not  even  asking  interest." 

"You'll  leave  me  alone  then — al- 
ways ?  "  was  the  craven  question  of  the 
banker. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rockwell,  con- 
temptuously. 

Davidson  reached  out  and  drew  the 
paper  toward  him.  His  hand  shook 
like  that  of  an  old  man,  and  he  could 
scarcely  scrawl  his  name  across  the 
first  line.  He  sank  back  with  his  eyes 
closed,  and  Rockwell  took  the  paper, 
put  it  carefully  into  his  pocket  and  went 
out. 


At  the  top  of  the  first  editorial  col- 
umn of  the  next  regular  issue  of  the 
Weekly  Times  appeared  this  article: 

A  NEW  ENTERPRISE. 

We  are  glad  to  announce  in  this  issue  of  the 
Times  the  organization  of  the  Consolidated  Min- 
eral Paint  Company,  with  a  capital  of  $50,000. 
This  company,  formed  solely  of  the  farmers  and 
business  men  of  this  community,  has  purchased 
AT  the 


AFTER   TEN   YEARS 

the  Hendry  farm,  six  miles  west  of  the  city,  and 
will  manufacture  into  paint  the  peculiar  clay  found 
there.  This  clay  is  commonly  called  "  keel,"  and 
is  of  a  rich  brown  or  reddish  color,  and  contains 
a  high  degree  of  mineral  matter,  which  insures 
its  durability  against  the  action  of  the  weather. 
Material  for  the  various  buildings  is  being  hauled 
to  the  place,  and  it  is  expected  that  the  paint  will 
be  turned  out  early  in  May.  The  president  of  the 
Consolidated  is  J.  F.  Rockwell,  who  is  well  and 
favorably  known  in  this  vicinity,  and  who  has 
evolved  this  project  after  a  careful  study  of  the 
conditions  extending  over  the  past  ten  years. 
William  A.  Davidson,  Jr.,  president  of  the  James 
County  Savings  Bank,  is  treasurer.  With  these 
two  men  at  the  head,  the  project  cannot  be  other 
than  successful.  Thomas  Grimby  is  the  secretary. 


THE  COWARD 

¥ 


THE  COWARD 


TLANTA  had  been  taken  and 
burned  by  Sherman,  and  the 
army  was  marching  on  toward 
the  sea.  There  was  really  little 
danger  now.  The  backbone  of  the  con- 
federacy was  broken.  The  old  men  had 
been  killed  in  the  earlier  years,  the 
young  men  were  in  the  north  holding 
Richmond  against  Grant  and  the  reor- 
ganized army  of  the  Potomac.  None  re- 
mained in  Georgia  but  the  children  and 
the  women,  who  worked  away  bravely 
and  sobbed  only  secretly,  and  here  and 
there  bands  of  bushwhackers,  who  fol- 
lowed the  marching  army  like  hungry 
wolves,  robbing  isolated  baggage-trains 
and  picking  off  men  and  officers  of  the 
line  from  behind  great  cypress-trees 
and  deep  growths  of  underbrush. 

On  either  flank  of  the  army  a  regi- 
ment of  western  troops,  made   up  of 
men    experienced   in    Indian   warfare, 
brave,  cool,  reckless,  acted  as  running 
45  guards 


THE   COWARD 

guards  against  these  secret  enemies. 
To  one  of  these  regiments  John  Her- 
ron  belonged.  He  was  a  young  man  at 
the  time,  barely  seventeen,  but  large  of 
figure,  broad-shouldered,  and  swift- 
limbed.  No  man  in  his  own  regiment 
could  beat  him  at  running  for  a  wager, 
and  only  one  soldier  in  the  entire  army 
had  outstripped  him,  but  that  by  so 
great  a  distance  that  the  fellow  was 
recognized  as  a  professional,  and  the 
troops  still  declared  Herron's  title 
clear.  His  popularity  appeared  in  the 
true  pleasure  with  which  the  men  had 
welcomed  the  appointment  of  one  so 
young  as  sergeant.  The  promotion 
had  come  to  him  a  few  weeks  before 
the  march  began. 

Near  Monticello,  fifty  miles  east  of 
Atlanta,  the  army  halted  for  the  night. 
Almost  immediately  an  aid  summoned 
Herron  to  the  colonel's  tent.  He  en- 
tered, saluted,  and  stood,  tall  and  erect, 
before  the  gray-haired  officer  who  sat 
bending  over  a  map  upon  the  table. 

"  Sergeant  Herron  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.    You  have  sent  for  me?" 

"Yes,"  the  colonel  answered,  and  fell 
to  studying  the  map. 

"Know    anything    of   the    country 

round  here?"    he  suddenly  asked  the 

46  younger 


THE   COWARD 

younger  man.  Then,  upon  Herron's 
negative  answer,  "  No,  of  course  not. 
Nobody  does.  God  only  knows  where 
we're  driving  to.  Now,  we've  a  pretty 
task  for  you,  if  you're  equal  to  it,  and 
from  what  I  hear,  I  think  you  are.  You 
look  it,  too.  It's  this.  You're  to  cap- 
ture the  captain  of  this  gang  of  bush- 
whackers that's  been  pestering  us  all 
along.  You're  to  take  him  dead  or 
alive.  He's  at  home,  and  we  can't  let 
him  escape.  These  cowards  have  shot 
too  many  good  officers.  If  we  get  the 
leader,  it'll  probably  break  up  the  busi- 
ness. But  the  devil  of  it  is,  how  to 
locate  the  house.  See  here.  We  have 
information  that  it's  two  miles  east  on 
this  road,"  pointing  with  his  fat  stubby 
forefinger  to  the  map  on  the  table,  "  and 
then  two  miles  due  south,  and  about  a 
half  a  mile  east.  Here's  the  road  all 
right  that  runs  out  east  of  the  town, 
but  I  don't  see  any  road  branching 
south.  There  may  be  a  private  road 
or  a  cow-path.  This  country's  all  criss- 
cross anyway,  and  a  native  can't  help 
getting  lost  once  in  a  while;  so  you  see 
your  job.  You're  to  take  twenty  men, 
and  capture  a  man  you  never  saw  at  a 
house  located  somewhere  near  the  fifth 
meridian.  Definite,  isn't  it?" 
47  Herron 


THE   COWARD 

Herron  waited  a  moment,  and  then 
started  to  move  away. 

"'Barney's  pets'  have  been  detailed 
as  the  squad  you're  to  take,"  continued 
the  colonel.  "  They're  used  to  this  sort 
of  thing,  and  not  afraid  of  the  devil  and 
all  his  fireworks.  Since  Barney  was 
shot  by  a  bushwhacker  they'll  be  doubly 
anxious  to  go." 

Herron  went  back  to  his  tent,  his 
head  and  breast  full  of  his  first  impor- 
tant commission.  He  could  eat  little  at 
supper,  and  waited  impatiently  for  the 
night  to  settle  down  upon  them.  He 
looked  to  his  firearms  and  smoked  a 
full  pipe.  At  dark  he  met  his  men  at  the 
chosen  rendezvous,  a  deserted  house  at 
the  extreme  east  end  of  the  little  village. 
They  were  all  there  when  he  arrived, 
and  a  rougher,  more  ill-looking  lot  could 
not  be  found  in  the  whole  army.  They 
were  the  scum  of  the  river  towns  in  the 
middle  west — men  with  no  respect  and 
less  discipline.  They  had  been  casting 
coarse  jokes  at  one  another  and  swear- 
ing softly,  but  as  he  came  up  a  surly 
silence  fell  upon  the  fellows.  Herron, 
unhesitating,  walked  into  the  center  of 
the  group. 

"  I  guess  you  all  know  our  game  to- 
night," he  said.  "  It's  to  find  a  guerrilla 
48  captain, 


THE   COWARD 

captain,  probably  the  one  that  killed 
your  leader,  Barney.  I  don't  know 
much  more  about  where  we're  going 
than  you  do,  but  we  are  to  find  the 
house.  We  won't  start  until  midnight, 
so  you  had  better  sleep  while  I  keep 
guard." 

"Aye,  aye,  my  hearty;  you're  bloomin' 
kind  for  such  a  youngster;  damn  my 
soul,  but  you  are,"  a  voice  sang  out 
from  the  rear  of  the  crowd,  and  they  all 
laughed.  Then  they  all  began  to  drop 
down  on  the  ground  in  twos  and  threes, 
and  almost  immediately  a  mingled  cho- 
rus of  heavy  breathing,  snores  and  rest- 
less movements  joined  with  the  rustling 
of  the  leaves  above.  But  Herrpn's  mind 
was  full  of  many  things ;  his  boyish 
days,  a  sweet  mother's  face,  and  grim 
battle  scenes  of  death  and  agony, 
strangely  mingled  with  bright  pictures 
of  his  future  and  a  happy  home  about 
him.  He  could  not  explain  this  thing 
that  was  upon  him.  It  was  not  fear, 
for  there  was  little  danger.  He  did  not 
recognize  the  nervousness  that  comes 
with  the  first  heavy  responsibility. 

The  location  of  the  house  was  not 

such  a  difficult  matter,  after  all.    They 

followed    the    road    indicated    by   the 

colonel,  passing  large  old  plantations 

49  with 


THE   COWARD 

with  low,  long  houses  and  tall  old  trees. 
The  road  did  not  follow  a  straight  line 
as  roads  do  in  the  west,  but  rambled 
over  hills  and  through  little  ravines  and 
around  corners  of  woodland.  There 
was  no  computing  of  distance  except 
by  time,  no  intersecting  lines  to  act  as 
signs. 

The  road  suddenly  plunged  down 
into  a  gloomy  little  hollow,  with  tall 
pine-trees  shutting  out  the  light  on 
either  hand.  The  troop  slowed  up,  and 
moved  cautiously  and  in  more  com- 
pact shape.  At  the  foot  of  the  hollow 
they  came  to  a  dead  halt  upon  a 
small  wooden  bridge  that  rocked  be- 
neath their  feet.  Unconsciously  all  the 
men  became  silent. 

"  We've  come  too  far,"  said  Herron. 

"No,  Sergeant,  you're  fooled  by  these 
cussed  roads,"  one  of  the  men  answered. 
"  It's  up  at  the  top  of  the  hill." 

"  You're  both  dead  wrong,"  another 
said.  "We've  come  two  miles  just 
about  right,  and  the  next  move's  prob- 
ably along  some  snake-track  leading 
through  those  trees.  That's  just  the 
way  a  bushwhacker  would  go  home. 
It's  in  the  breed." 

"  Well,"  said  Herron,  to  decide  the 

matter,  "we've  lots  of  time.    Half  of 

50  you 


THE   COWARD 

you  go  straight  ahead  up  the  hill.  Keep 
a  sharp  lookout  on  each  side,  and  whis- 
tle us  to  you  when  you  find  an  opening. 
We'll  go  back  a  ways  and  do  the  same." 

The  party  divided,  and  Herron  and 
his  ten  men  marched  back  the  incline 
they  had  just  descended.  They  sep- 
arated again  into  five  men  each,  and 
edged  the  trees  on  either  side.  At  the 
very  top,  on  the  south  side,  and  where 
the  wooded  growth  of  the  hollow  began, 
Herron,  stumbling  over  a  root,  dropped 
his  gun  to  the  ground.  As  he  stooped 
for  it  his  nails  dug  into  the  bare  dirt 
instead  of  grass,  and  his  eyes  made  a 
discovery.  In  a  moment  he  was  down 
on  all  fours,  and  had  pulled  a  comrade 
beside  him.  Striking  a  match,  they  dis- 
covered a  small  bridle-path  leading 
southward  along  the  edge  of  the  trees 
at  the  top  of  the  little  ravine. 

The  others  were  whistled  back,  and 
the  entire  party  started  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously forward.  The  path  was  little 
more  than  a  line,  and  so  indistinct  that 
often  they  were  forced  to  get  down  upon 
their  knees  and  hunt  for  it  as  dogs  nose 
for  a  trail.  This  they  did  for  two  hours, 
moving  due  south,  when  suddenly  it 
opened  into  an  old  unused  wagon-road 
that  seemed  to  come  in  from  the  south, 
51  and 


THE   COWARD 

and  then  turned  abruptly  east  into  the 
hollow  which  had  now  broadened  out. 

The  chances  were  for  turning  east- 
ward, and  this  they  did,  marching  more 
rapidly  down  the  sloping  bank.  As  they 
came  down  into  the  level  the  road  made 
a  sharp  bend  to  the  north,  and  suddenly 
brought  them  out  from  behind  the  trees 
into  an  open  space,  where  nestled  a 
snug  farm-house  with  several  outbuild- 
ings clustered  about  it.  All  was  dark, 
silent,  and  spectral  in  the  faint  light  of 
the  sky. 

The  men  stood  motionless,  while 
Herron's  heart  beat  faster.  A  dog 
somewhere  among  the  stables  uttered 
a  sharp,  hoarse  bark,  then  was  silent. 

The  men  quickly  surrounded  the 
house,  and  Herron  shouted  out : 

"  Open  up,  there.    We  want  to  see 
you." 

They  waited,  but  there  was  no  re- 
sponse. 

"Here,  Wilson,  you  keep  up  the 
racket,  and  if  they  don't  answer,  smash 
in  the  door.  I'll  go  round  to  the  back. 
A  guerrilla  might  try  it  that  way  first." 

As  he  started  to  pass  along  behind 

the  men,  he  saw  that  the  brightest  stars 

were  dimming,  and  that  many  objects 

were  standing  forth  from  the  black  wall 

52  of 


THE   COWARD 

of  night  and  taking  on  indistinct  shapes 
in  the  fast-approaching  dawn. 

To  one  side,  a  row  of  small  cribs 
with  slatted  sides  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. From  his  position  he  saw  that 
both  sides  of  the  house  were  guarded. 
Wilson  had  ceased  calling,  and  was 
pounding  on  the  door,  and  in  one  of  the 
upper  rooms  a  light  was  stirring. 

Herron  threw  open  one  of  the  sheds, 
and  peered  into  it  with  straining  eyes, 
and  poked  the  butt-end  of  his  gun  into 
the  corners.  It  was  empty.  Then  he 
passed  to  the  next  crib,  and  threw  open 
the  door.  At  first  he  could  see  nothing 
in  the  darkness.  Suddenly  something 
moved  at  his  feet.  A  man  arose  to  his 
knees.  The  shed  was  a  foot  or  so  above 
the  ground,  and  Herron  found  the  man 
kneeling  there  on  the  floor,  looking  into 
his  eyes  in  a  dazed,  helpless  fashion. 
Long  black  hair  fell  down  and  blew 
fitfully  about  his  shoulders  in  the  early 
morning  breeze  that  swept  through  the 
door.  A  rifle  lay  on  the  floor.  Two  pis- 
tols were  in  his  belt.  Herron  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot,  unable  to  move. 

The  darkness  was  disappearing.  A 
few  late  stars  blinked  faintly  in  the 
west.  The  trees  were  shaping  them- 
selves more  distinctly  against  the  gray 
53 


THE   COWARD 

light  which  paled  the  east.  A  bird 
began  to  sing,  and  was  answered  from 
far  off  in  the  woods.  A  solitary  rooster 
crowed.  From  the  house  women's 
voices  mingling  with  Wilson's  deeper 
tones  floated  down  to  Herron  on  the 
clear  morning  air. 

The  kneeling  figure  stirred.  He 
sought  his  belt.  But  the  movement 
aroused  Herron.  He  knew  that  he  had 
found  the  leader  of  the  bushwhackers, 
the  man  he  was  to  capture,  dead  or 
alive. 

The  man  before  him  raised  his  pistol. 
Herron  never  knew  how  it  happened, 
but  instantly  he  too  raised  his  weapon 
full  against  the  man's  shoulder,  and  he 
was  looking  straight  in  the  eyes  before 
him.  There  was  a  double  report.  Her- 
ron felt  a  ball  graze  his  scalp,  and  heard 
a  woman's  scream  from  the  house. 
When  the  smoke  cleared  away,  the 
kneeling  man  had  fallen  back  in  a  hud- 
dled heap,  and  two  white-clad  figures 
with  streaming  hair  and  outstretched 
arms  came  flying  across  the  yard,  fol- 
lowed by  all  the  soldiers. 

The  men  came  up  short  at  the  shed, 
and  then  broke  into  uncontrollable  tur- 
moil. The  women  fell  at  the  feet  of  the 
young  sergeant,  clasping  his  knees  and 
54  begging 


THE   COWARD 

begging  for  the  life  of  the  wounded 
leader. 

"  There  is  no  danger.  If  he  is  alive, 
no  one  shall  harm  him.  Stand  back 
there,  men;  stand  back  from  that 
door!" 

Discipline  went  to  the  winds.  The 
troops  were  like  cattle  stampeded  by 
the  smell  of  blood.  They  swarmed 
about  the  door,  and  peered  in  at  the 
chinks  in  the  sides.  Some  swore,  and 
one  cried,  "  That's  the  chap  that  shot 
old  Barney — I  saw  him  do  it.  I  was  as 
near  as  this." 

Their  murdered  leader,  the  numerous 
dead  and  wounded  who  had  met  their 
fate  from  guerrilla  warfare,  came  into 
their  minds.  All  mercy  was  crowded 
out.  While  Herron  was  attempting  to 
quiet  the  women,  one  of  the  soldiers 
put  his  gun  into  a  chink  in  the  side  of 
the  shed  and  fired. 

"That's  right,  give  it  to  him.  It's 
too  good  for  his  likes,"  one  of  the  men 
cried  out.  "  Give  him  hell ! " 

Inside  the  door  the  man  had  dragged 
himself  to  his  knees,  and  shouted,  "  I 
surrender;  gentlemen,  I  surrender! 
My  God,  don't  shoot  a  prisoner ! " 

Herron  rushed  into  the  midst  of  the 
men. 
55  "  Drop 


THE   COWARD 

"Drop  that!"  he  cried,  and  clubbed 
down  a  gun,  and  pushed  the  man  back 
roughly. 

Then  he  turned  desperately  toward 
the  door.  Some  one  plucked  him  back, 
just  as  a  shot  rang  out  beside  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  fool  ?  "  said 
a  gruff  voice  in  his  ear,  and  a  heavy 
blow  was  dealt  him  on  the  side  of  the 
head.  He  stood  dazed  and  witless,  but 
seeing  all  that  occurred  around  him. 

Suddenly  the  bushwhacker  appeared 
in  the  doorway  straight  as  an  arrow, 
his  eyes  upon  the  women. 

The  sight  instantly  froze  the  troop 
into  silence.  Not  a  man  moved,  while 
the  great  round  face  of  the  sun,  all  fire 
and  gold,  came  up  above  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  veiled  in  rainbow  colors  of 
fleecy  ribbon-clouds,  pink  and  delicate 
purple,  orange  and  changing  opal.  Its 
beams  fell  directly  upon  the  face  of  the 
man  framed  in  the  doorway. 

Throwing  up  its  arms,  the  figure 
lunged  forward  to  the  ground  heavily. 
One  of  the  troop  reached  down  and  cut 
away  his  pistol-belt  with  one  weapon 
still  in  it.  Another  took  his  rifle.  Then, 
like  cowardly  wolves,  they  turned  tail 
and  slunk  up  the  road.  Herron  stood 
alone  beside  the  fallen  man.  The  older 
56  woman 


THE   COWARD 

woman  lay  unconscious  upon  the 
ground.  The  other  was  hanging  over 
the  dead  body  of  the  man,  pressing 
back  the  blood-clotted  hair  from  the 
forehead  and  tenderly  kissing  the  pale 
lips. 

She  was  utterly  unconscious  of  Her- 
ron's  presence  and  he  of  hers.  Like  a 
man  in  a  trance  he  walked  mechanically 
after  the  men  along  the  road  leading  up 
the  hill.  At  the  top  he  stopped  and 
looked  back,  but  the  trees  where  the 
road  turned  shut  out  his  view. 

Suddenly  he  started  like  a  man  awak- 
ening from  a  bad  dream,  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  scalp.  Looking  at  his  fin- 
gers, he  found  blood  upon  them. 


57 


II. 

FTER  the  war  John  Herron  lo- 
cated in  one  of  the  small  towns 
of  the  new  state,  Nebraska,  and 
in  ten  years  had  built  up  a  large 
and  successful  business.  Most  of  his 
wares  he  purchased  in  Omaha,  and  dur- 
ing one  visit  there  he  met  Daphne  Car- 
roll, who  was  visiting  her  aunt.  After 
that  his  business  somehow  took  him 
more  frequently  to  the  city  and  on  Christ- 
mas day,  1875,  they  were  married. 

Before  coming  to  Omaha,  Daphne 
Carroll  had  lived  in  Chicago,  and  there 
it  was  Herron  took  her  on  their  wedding 
Journey.  Her  earlier  girlhood,  she  had 
told  him  once,  had  been  passed  in  the 
south,  but  as  she  seldom  spoke  of  her 
residence  there,  he  took  it  for  granted 
that  it  must  have  been  very  brief  or  she 
too  young  to  have  any  vivid  impressions 
of  it.  Chicago  was  always  "home"  to 
her,  and  so  he  planned  the  trip  for  her 
to  that  city. 

The  young  couple  spent  two  weeks 
58  visiting 


THE   COWARD 

visiting  her  friends,  the  theaters,  and 
the  stores.  The  last  night  of  their  stay 
hung  heavy  on  them.  The  train  did  not 
leave  until  midnight,  and  at  dinner  they 
were  discussing  what  to  do. 

"  What  have'nt  we  seen  ?  "  she  asked, 
removing  her  glove  and  gazing  down  at 
the  ring  on  one  of  her  fingers.  They 
were  long  and  slender  and  delicately 
white,  as  was  her  complexion,  though 
her  hair  and  eyes  were  dark,  that  rare 
combination  found  occasionally  among 
beautiful  women  of  the  south. 

"There's  that  war  play,"  replied 
her  husband,  dishing  the  soup  for  the 
two;  "we've  done  everything  else  in 
town.  We  ought  to  make  our  record 
complete." 

"Well,  we'll  go,  then,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing on  him.  "  I'm  afraid  it'll  be  rather — 
rather  depressing,  but  we  can  leave 
early  if  we  don't  like  it.  If  we  stay  to 
the  end,  we  can  take  a  cab  and  go  di- 
rect to  the  train." 

The  play  was  new  and  melodramatic 
enough,  but  there  was  interest  in  it  for 
them.  It  took  him  back  to  the  days  of 
his  youth  and  the  wild,  perilous  life  of 
the  soldier.  To  her  it  was — but  all  dur- 
ing the  play  she  sat  quite  still,  gazing 
fascinated  at  the  scenes.  Occasionally 
59  she 


THE   COWARD 

she  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm, 
and  in  one  scene  where  a  spy  was  shot, 
she  grasped  him  with  a  grip  of  steel  and 
her  face  was  white,  and  he  could  hear 
her  breath  catch  in  her  throat. 

All  during  the  ride  to  the  station  she 
was  unusually  quiet  and  preoccupied. 
He  helped  her  from  the  cab  and  held  her 
close  to  his  side  as  they  passed  through 
the  waiting-rooms  and  the  lighted  train- 
sheds  to  the  Pullman  car. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  were  her  last 
words,  "for  the  play  and  the  trip.  It  is 
like  you." 

At  Omaha  the  next  afternoon  they 
took  a  small  local  train  off  the  main  line 
which  would  bring  them  home  about 
seven  that  night.  When  the  train  start- 
ed there  were  few  passengers  upon  it, 
but  these  few  gazed  knowingly  at  the 
young  married  couple.  Two  weeks 
could  not  hide  the  tell-tale  happiness 
that  shone  in  the  eyes  of  both.  A  large, 
red-faced  man  in  a  check-suit  and  gray 
slouch  hat  read  his  paper  less  atten- 
tively. A  thin  scrawny  woman  in  black 
drew  herself  half-around  and  looked  di- 
rectly at  them.  A  little  child,  sitting 
bolt  upright  near  the  center  of  the  car, 
alone  deigned  them  no  attention.  She 
clung  tightly  to  a  doll  with  a  dirty, 
60  smashed-in 


THE   COWARD 

smashed-in  nose  that  sprawled  awk- 
wardly on  the  cushion  beside  her,  and 
with  her  red  mitten  having-  rubbed  a 
clear  place  on  the  pane,  looked  longingly 
out  upon  the  frozen  fields. 

This  little  girl  attracted  the  young 
wife,  who,  leaving  her  husband,  went 
across  and  talked  lovingly  to  her,  as 
women  do  to  strange  children  the  world 
over.  She  found  out  that  the  little  girl 
was  going  home — to  a  home  she  had 
never  seen.  Her  father  had  gone  a  year 
before,  and  now  she  was  coming,  and  he 
would  meet  her  at  the  depot  and  take 
her  to  the  great  new  house  on  the  hill, 
with  the  long  driveway  and  the  crack- 
ling fire.  Oh,  she  knew  all  about  it,  for 
he  had  told  her  all  just  before  he  left  her 
a  year  before. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  The  young 
wife  came  back  to  her  husband  who  had 
turned  over  the  seat  in  front  and  had 
piled  their  luggage  upon  it.  He  threw 
down  his  book  and  they  talked  of  many 
things.  Then  silence  came  between 
them. 

"I've  been  thinking  all  day  of  that 
play  last  night,"  she  said,  suddenly;  "I 
can't  get  away  from  it.  That  poor  wretch 
that  was  shot — his  death-cry  rings  in 
my  ears  all  the  time." 
61  « It 


THE   COWARD 

"It  has  had  a  depressing  effect  upon 
me,  too,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  we  hadn't  gone,"  his  wife 
went  on.  "  We  could  have  talked,  which 
would  have  been  much  nicer." 

"That  play,"  Herron  went  on,  "  has 
brought  up  in  my  mind  some  things  I 
have  been  trying  to  forget  for  ten 
years — some  things  I  saw  during  the 
war." 

"You  in  the  war?"  she  asked,  smil- 
ing. "  Oh,  you  were  too  young." 

"  I  was  young  enough,  but  there  were 
plenty  of  youngsters  on  both  sides — how 
many,  God  knows." 

"  John,"  she  asked,  gravely,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "  which  side  were  you 
on?" 

Surprise  crept  into  his  eyes  as  he 
straightened  up  proudly. 

"With  Grant  before  Vicksburg  ;  then 
we  were  put  on  patrol  duty  along  the 
Mississippi,  and  then  they  sent  us  east 
to  join  Sherman." 

There  was  just  the  slightest  move- 
ment on  her  part,  an  unconscious  shrink- 
ing from  him.  He  felt  it,  and  it  hurt 
him. 

"  You  never  told  me  that,  John." 

"  No,  I  never  told  any  one  out  here. 

Some  things  happened  then — one  thing 

62  especially 


THE   COWARD 

especially  down  in  Georgia — that  I  want 
to  forget." 

"  Georgia  ?  Were  you  in  Georgia  ? 
Why,  that's  where—"  She  stopped 
abruptly,  her  hands  tight-clasped  in  her 
lap. 

The  train  was  beginning  to  run  heav- 
ily and  lurch  badly,  for  they  were  get- 
ting among  the  hills  along  the  river 
where  the  road  was  rough.  Neither 
seemed  to  notice  it. 

"  That's  where  —  what  ?  "  Herron 
asked,  gently. 

"  That's  where  I  lived  —  during  the 
war." 

"Then  you  were — 'on  the  otherside'?" 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes."  The  answer  was  proud  and 
she  sat  very  straight,  her  eyes  glowed 
bright  and  the  color  was  on  her  cheeks. 
An  intangible  something  ran  through 
Herron,  but  he  could  not  analyze  the 
feeling. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  and  her  eyes 
were  looking  far  away,  "  I  was  a  rebel, 
and  I'm  proud  of  it.  How  I  hated  Yan- 
kees! I  hate  them  yet ! " 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  caught  his 
hand  and  began  to  caress  it  gently  be- 
tween her  own. 

"  There,  there,  dear,  now  you  know. 
63  I 


THE   COWARD 

I  never  told  anybody,  not  even  you. 
You  must  forgive  me  that,  and  what  I 
said.  I  didn't  mean  that — that  last.  My 
old  hatred  came  out  again.  I  thought 
it  was  dead.  That  play  and  that  scene 
of  the  spy  brought  it  all  back  again — 
that  awful  morning  when  they  killed 
him.  He  was  a  rebel  captain,  you  know, 
without  a  company.  No,  no,  dear,  don't 
speak.  Don't  you  see  I  want  to  tell  you 
all  now.  I  shall  feel  better  for  it.  My 
father  was  a  rebel  captain,  as  brave  as 
any  man,  one  of  the  flower  of  the  south. 
But  his  regiment  was  killed  at  Shiloh, 
almost  every  man,  and  he  came  home 
with  a  wound  in  his  side.  Then  Sher- 
man began  his  march  to  the  sea,  burn- 
ing and  killing,  and  devastating  the 
whole  country.  There  were  only  old 
men  and  weak  women  to  oppose.  My 
father  was  well  then,  and  he  gathered 
the  boys  of  the  plantations  together  and 
followed  the  Yankees  from  Atlanta. 
Yes,  he  was  a  guerrilla,  a  bushwacker, 
and  he  fought  as  was  their  way;  but 
all's  fair  in  war." 

The  old  memory  was  beginning  to 
have  its  effect  upon  her.  Her  breath 
came  in  shorter  gasps  and  she  did  not 
see  the  pallor  upon  her  husband's  brow. 

"Then,  then  one  night  he  was  at 
64  home. 


THE   COWARD 

home.  A  slave  escaped  and  told  the 
Yankees.  That  night  they  came  to  our 
plantation.  They  found  my  father's 
hiding-place  in  a  corn-crib  behind  the 
house.  No,  no;  listen  !  You  must  hear 
it  all  now." 

She  held  his  hand  with  an  iron  grasp 
and  he  could  not  move,  overcome  with 
the  horror  of  it. 

"  They  killed  him  there  in  cold  blood. 
Ah,  that  was  the  northern  way.  They 
shot  him  penned  in  and  begging  for 
mercy.  I  can  see  it  all  now — the  young 
officer  — " 

"Oh,  my  God!"  It  was  Herron's 
voice,  hoarse  and  suffering,  but  she  did 
not  hear  him. 

" —  the  grim  soldiers,  their  terrible 
fire  and  the  morning  sun  coming  up  on 
it  all.  Then  suddenly  he  stood  forth  in 
the  doorway,  erect,  his  face  at  peace, 
but  blood  over  his  hair  and  clothes,  his 
eyes  upon  me.  Oh,  father,  father,  fa- 
ther ! " 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  her 
hands  were  at  her  breast.  Her  husband 
sat  immovable  as  stone,  frozen  with 
horror. 

The  whistle  of  the  engine  shrieked 

and  the  wind  rushed  by.    The  chill  air 

swept  in  at  the  loose  windows.    It  had 

65  begun 


THE   COWARD 

begun  to  snow  and  the  icy  flakes  were 
beating  sharply  against  the  pane. 

"  But,  dear,  now  I've  told  you,"  she 
said.  She  had  taken  his  hand  again  and 
was  running  her  fingers  up  his  wrist. 
"  I  had  to  tell  you.  I've  kept  it  so  long 
— ever  since  mother  died  that  same  year 
and  I  came  north  to  live  after  the  war. 
I  love  you,  John ;  don't  you  see  how 
much?  That's  why  I  wanted  you  to 
know.  Why,  dear,  how  cold  you  are 
and  strange.  Tell  me,  what  is  it,  dear?" 

Herron  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
stood  unsteadily  swaying  back  and  forth 
in  the  uneven  motion  of  the  car.  He 
stared  at  her  and  great  drops  of  sweat 
came  out  on  his  forehead  and  face,  and 
the  muscles  of  his  neck  were  like  whip- 
cords. He  steadied  himself  by  holding 
the  arm  of  the  seat,  and  bending  over 
looked  wildly  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  there  that  night.  I  was  with 
Sherman  on  the  march  to  the  sea,  and 
I  killed  your  father." 

His  voice  was  unnatural,  brutal,  and 
each  word  seemed  as  if  wrung  from  him 
by  torture.  Then  he  sank  into  a  heap 
beside  her,  but  she  shrank  closer  to  the 
window. 

"  You,  you,  John  Herron?   You  killed 
my  father  ?  " 
66  Herron 


THE   COWARD 

Herron  shrank  back  and  looked  at 
her  with  haggard  eyes. 

"  Yes,  he  said,  slowly,  "  I— I—but— " 

"  You  coward!"  she  burst  out.  "I  hate 
you ! " 

Herron  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but 
wearily  getting  up  went  into  the  car 
ahead. 

The  train  drew  up  at  a  little  station 
with  a  frosty  grinding  of  wheels.  The 
brakeman  turned  up  his  coat  collar  and 
went  out,  followed  by  the  man  in  the 
checked  suit  and  the  scrawny  woman 
in  black.  The  opening  of  the  door  sent 
a  chill  over  the  car.  A  young  woman 
entered,  followed  by  a  raw  young  farm- 
er. She  was  about  eighteen,  large, 
awkward,  and  clad  in  an  ill-fitting 
dress  of  green.  The  feathers  in  her 
hat  suggested  a  home-dyed  product  of 
the  poultry-yard.  Her  eyes  were  a 
dull  blue,  patient  with  the  patience  of 
dumb  animals  after  long  and  continued 
toiling.  On  the  third  finger  of  her 
thick,  coarse,  red  hand  was  a  heavy 
gold  ring,  and  on  her  left  cheek  was  a 
streak  of  soot. 

The  young  farmer  wore  a  faded  blue 

coat  buttoned  close  to  his  unshaven 

chin.    His  drab-colored  slouch  hat  was 

pushed  back,  showing  his  hair  well- 

67  plastered 


THE   COWARD 

plastered  over  his  low,  receding  fore- 
head. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  pushing-  her  slightly 
ahead  of  him  into  the  second  seat  to  the 
left  near  the  little  sheet-iron  stove  which 
glowed  red  in  the  gathering  twilight. 

She  turned.  For  a  moment  they 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes.  Stooping 
awkwardly,  he  kissed  her  so  resound- 
ingly that  the  brakeman  entering  at  the 
rear  door  heard  it.  Then  the  man 
turned  and  went  out. 

"Well!  Did  you  hear  that!"  exclaimed 
the  brakeman. 

There  was  no  answer,  though  the 
child  with  the  doll  looked  at  the  young 
girl  with  widening  eyes.  The  whistle 
shrieked.  The  train  started.  And 
through  an  unfrosted  corner  of  the  win- 
dow the  country  girl  was  gazing  out  to 
the  platform  where  the  man  stood  shiv- 
ering in  the  cold,  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets,  his  hat  half-drawn  over  his 
eyes,  which  looked  wistfully  after  her. 
Then  she  fell  to  picking  absently  at  the 
threads  in  her  dress  and  vainly  strove 
to  keep  back  the  tears. 

Dusk  came  on,  and  the  brakeman 
lighted  the  lamps  early.  He  went  into 
the  smoking-car  to  talk  with  a  traveling- 
man  of  accidents,  storms,  and  Nebraska 
68  blizzards. 


THE   COWARD 

blizzards.  The  train  swung  sharply 
about  hills,  and  in  and  out  among  ra- 
vines, now  and  then  pitching  heavily 
from  side  to  side,  finally  dropping  into 
the  valley  of  a  little  stream  frozen 
over. 

Herron  came  in  from  the  other  car, 
moved  a  valise  into  a  seat  forward  and 
sat  down  before  his  wife.  He  was  calm, 
and  for  some  time  sat  very  still.  Pres- 
ently he  rubbed  a  place  clear  on  the 
window,  made  it  large  enough  for  her 
to  see  out  of  it,  and  pointed  at  the  pass- 
ing landscape  still  discernible  in  the 
evening  dusk.  He  fell  to  telling  her  of 
the  country-side,  every  foot  of  which  he 
knew  from  boyhood  exploration,  for  they 
were  approaching  their  home.  He  talked 
quietly  and  evenly,  and  parts  of  his 
speech  she  heard  distinctly,  other  parts 
but  indistinctly,  as  if  coming  from  some 
source  far  away. 

"There  is  Turner's  mill,  the  white 
roof  over  there  among  the  hills.  We 
used  to  camp  there  every  summer.  The 
best  springs  are  there,  and  they  never 
freeze  over  during  this  kind  of  weather. 
And  a  little  lake  with  pond-lilies  in  the 
summer,  and  cat-tails,  and  a  tiny  little 
boat  just  large  enough  for  two,  if  you 
sit  quite  still.  I  have  often  thought  how 
69  I 


THE   COWARD 

I  should  like  to  go  back  there  with  you, 
and  then  we  would  wander  up  through 
the  prettiest  little  ravine,  where  there 
are  ferns  and  mosses  and  violets,  up 
past  the  old  stone  spring-house,  to  the 
top  of  the  hill.  There's  a  green  grove 
there  in  summer,  with  a  swing  and 
benches  and  a  barrel-stave  hammock. 
Some  day  we'll  drive  down  here  and  see 
the  view.  We'll  camp  out  a  week,  hunt 
and  fish,  and  live  like  pirates. 

"See  that  bluff  over  there?  The 
snow's  blown  off,  and  its  face  stares  at 
us.  Now,  do  you  see  that  dark  spot 
near  the  top,  with  a  faint  line  of  white 
leading  down  slantingly?  That's  Con- 
ell's  Cavern,  as  we  called  it,  and  the 
white  line  is  the  path  covered  with  snow. 
It's  a  cave  that  runs  back  into  the  bluff 
and  gets  so  small  you  can't  squeeze 
through  to  the  end.  We  boys  killed  a 
young  wolf  in  there  once.  I  can  see  its 
bright  shining  eyes  gleaming  at  us  yet. 
Then  one  day  I  slipped  on  the  path  and 
fell  to  the  bottom — fifty  feet — and  it  was 
s  week  before  I  knew  my  mother.  One 
Sunday  last  summer  I  came  down  here 
and  climbed  up  there,  and  fell  to  think- 
ing of  you.  One  can  see  for  miles  and 
miles,  and  somehow  it  seemed  as  if  you 
were  beside  me  and  that  we  were  lopk- 
70  ing 


THE  COWARD 

ing  out  over  the  sea.    We'll  go  there 
together  some  day." 

She  still  heard  him  indistinctly,  for 
she  sat  thinking  deeply  to  herself.  She 
turned  a  little  pale,  and  her  mouth  trem- 
bled. 

"  There's  Warner's  Island,"  he  went 
on,  as  a  little  ice-locked  bit  of  land,  with 
a  tall  old  maple  standing  high  above 
the  little  grove  in  the  center,  seemed  to 
float  down  upon  them.  "  That  was  the 
'  Treasure  Island  '  of  our  boyish  band  of 
robbers.  That  line  of  trees  over  there 
to  the  north  marks  the  '  great  canyon,' 
as  we  used  to  call  it.  We're  in  the 
'  little  canyon '  now,  but  it's  getting  so 
dark  we  can't  see.  The  hill  goes  straight 
up  on  that  side,  straight  down  on  this 
to  the  river  below.  The  railroad  people 
had  to  make  this  climb  to  get  into  the 
village  and  across  the  slight  'divide.' 
It'll  only  be  a  few  moments  and  we'll 
soon  be  there.  It's  not  much  over  a  mile 
to  the  station." 

He  had  risen  and  gathered  their 
things  together.  He  helped  her  into 
her  jacket  and  buttoned  his  overcoat 
tight.  The  train  gave  a  sudden  lurch 
just  then,  but  they  did  not  notice  it. 

"  I  hope  you'll  like  our  home,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  you  will." 
71  "Wait, 


THE   COWARD 

"  Wait,  John,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  I 
want  you  to  forgive  me." 

He  started  to  turn  to  her,  but  another 
more  violent  lurch  threw  them  both  to 
the  floor,  and  amid  a  terrific  grinding 
and  pounding  and  crashing  of  broken 
timber  the  train  left  the  track  and 
plunged  down  the  embankment. 

The  car  was  lying  upon  its  side. 
Herron  found  that  they  were  pinioned 
under  a  broken  seat,  a  heavy  piece  of 
timber  from  the  roof  weighing  down 
upon  them.  Near  the  stove  a  great 
country  girl  with  a  streak  of  soot  upon 
her  cheek  was  screaming  loudly.  The 
child  with  the  doll  lay  quite  still,  with 
her  head  hanging  limp  over  the  arm  of 
the  seat. 

Herron  said  nothing.  With  all  his 
strength  he  attempted  to  raise  the 
beam.  It  moved  some,  and  gradually 
working  it  backward  and  forward,  he 
was  able  to  free  his  head,  and  then  his 
arms,  and  then  to  get  clear  altogether. 

Looking  about  him,  he  saw  that  the 
little  sheet-iron  stove  in  its  fall  had  been 
loosened  and  broken  open.  The  live 
coals  had  rolled  out  and  set  fire  to 
the  woodwork.  Within  two  feet  of 
this  stove  lay  the  screaming  country 
girl. 
72  Herron 


THE   COWARD 

Herron  worked  his  way  across  over- 
turned seats  and  broken  windows  to 
the  center  of  the  car  and  kicked  open 
the  small  tool-chest  near  the  line  of 
little  ventilating  windows,  and  took  out 
an  ax  and  a  crowbar. 

Groping  his  way  back  slowly,  for  the 
car  was  gradually  filling  with  smoke, 
he  first  raised  slightly  with  the  crow- 
bar the  timber  that  still  imprisoned  his 
wife.  He  chopped  off  the  back  of  a  seat 
and  using  this  as  a  wedge  gradually 
forced  the  beam  upward  until  she  could 
crawl  up  and  half  stand  beside  him. 
Then  he  fell  to  hacking  at  the  top  of 
the  car  near  one  of  the  little  ventilators, 
through  glass  and  wood  and  sheet-iron 
roofing,  until  he  had  made  a  hole  large 
enough  for  them  to  creep  out.  He  went 
through  first  and  helped  her  to  follow. 
They  found  themselves  beside  a  little 
frozen  stream  in  a  narrow  gulch,  with 
here  and  there  a  gaunt  bare-timbered 
tree. 

She  sank  down  close  to  a  large  rock 
with  a  bare  sumach  bush  near  it,  while 
he  returned  to  the  car,  creeping  through 
the  hole  he  had  made  in  the  roof. 

Inside,  the  fore  part  of  the  car  was 

ablaze.    The  country  girl  was  sobbing 

and  praying,  and  striving  to  edge  far- 

73  ther 


THE   COWARD 

ther  and  farther  from  the  approaching 
flames. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could 
break  in  the  seats  and  the  part  of  the 
floor  that  had  been  crushed  in  about 
her.  While  he  worked  he  heard  a  voice 
behind  him.  Returned.  The  brakeman, 
hatless,  and  with  blood  across  his  pale 
cheek,  had  followed  him  through  the 
opening. 

"  Gawd,  but  this  is  awful,"  he  said, 
breathless;  "engineer,  conductor,  every- 
thing ahead  pinned  in  —  clean  out  of 
sight." 

Together  they  lifted  the  country  girl 
from  the  debris,  her  hair  singed,  her 
face  burnt  by  the  flames,  and  carried 
her  out.  At  the  opening  Herron  found 
his  wife  on  the  point  of  entering  the 
car.  The  men  stood  the  country  girl  on 
her  feet,  and  she  fell  to  crying  again. 

"  Go  for  help  — at  the  station,"  Her- 
ron shouted,  and  the  brakeman  started 
on  the  run  toward  the  village.  Stoop- 
ing, Herron  covered  his  blistered  hands 
with  snow. 

"  The  child,"  said  his  wife. 

He  turned  and  silently  crept  through 

the  opening.    Inside  all  was  flame  and 

smoke.    Crackling  wood  fell  about  him 

and  the  burning  floor  scorched  his  feet. 

74  It 


THE  COWARD 

It  was  some  moments  before  he  found 
the  child,  with  head  down,  hanging  limp 
over  the  edge  of  the  seat,  the  doll  still 
in  her  hand. 

He  gathered  her  gently  into  his  arms 
and  groped  his  way  badk  to  the  opening. 
He  saw  that  a  burning  timber  had  fallen 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  car  and 
blocked  his  exit.  There  was  but  one 
thing  to  do.  Holding  the  child  in  the 
hollow  of  his  arm,  he  again  fell  to  hack- 
ing at  the  blazing  beam.  The  flames 
crept  about  him,  filled  his  eyes  with 
smoke  until  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheek,  scorched  his  flesh  until  the  skin 
peeled  off  in  shreds.  And  still  he 
worked  on. 

He  felt  a  dull  thumping  in  his  ears, 
and  the  cords  of  his  eyes  drawing  tighter. 
He  marveled  that  the  child  in  his  arms 
lay  so  still.  And  then  the  beam  gave 
way,  he  pushed  through  and  fell  head- 
long into  the  snow. 

The  flames  broke  forth  from  the  car, 
painting  livid  red  the  snow  -  covered 
sides  of  the  little  valley.  Dark  figures 
came  running  from  the  village. 

A  large,  awkward  country  girl  with 

a  streak  of  soot  across  her  cheek  and 

a  heavy  gold  ring  upon  the  finger  of  her 

left  hand  held  in  her  aching  arms  the 

75  limp, 


THE   COWARD 

limp,  still  form  of  a  child,  still  clasping 
tightly  a  sprawling  doll. 

Near  the  sumach  bush  beside  the 
road  a  woman  had  thrown  herself  be- 
side the  prostrate  form  of  a  man  with 
closed  eyes,  brushing  back  the  singed 
brown  hair  and  passionately  kissing 
the  motionless  lips. 

Presently  the  eyes  opened  and  the 
lips  smiled  up  at  her  faintly,  while  the 
flames  died  down  a  moment  and  a  great 
white  star  came  out  in  the  sky  above 
them. 


AT   DAWN   OF   DAY 


AT   DAWN    OF  DAY 
I 


SULLEN  group  of  roughly  clad 
men  stood  in  the  street  before 
the  Clarke  Palace  Hotel.  They 
did  not  talk  much,  but  when 
they  did  there  was  hatred  and  vehe- 
mence in  their  tones.  They  moved  in 
and  out,  now  on  the  board-walk,  now 
quite  into  the  street,  as  if  expecting 
something,  but  never  moving  resolutely. 
The  rays  of  the  early  setting  sun  fell 
slantingly  between  the  walls  of  the 
street,  touching  here  and  there  a  metal 
point  with  golden  fire,  or  painting  a 
higher  pane  in  burning  red.  A  man  on 
horseback  suddenly  turned  into  the 
street,  and  the  dust  from  his  horse's 
feet  settled  down  again  like  a  shower 
of  crimson  mist. 

"Hello!  Lem,"  a  man  in  the  crowd 
called  out  as  the  rider  drew  near,  stopped 
at  the  edge,  and  threw  one  foot  over  the 
saddle-horn,  displaying  a  rough,  dust- 
covered  boot,  laced  on  the  side  high  up 
79  the 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

the  calf  of  his  leg.  His  heavy  blue  shirt 
was  opened  at  the  neck  so  that  the 
shaggy  black  hair  showed  on  his  breast. 
The  iron-gray  hair  on  his  head  was 
close-cropped  and,  something  unusual 
in  that  conntry,  he  was  clean-shaven. 
His  mouth  closed  itself  firmly  over  a 
square  jaw.  His  eyes  were  deep  and 
unfathomable,  and  above  his  right  brow 
was  the  fine  white  track  of  a  little  scar. 
This  was  a  mark  he  had  received  in  his 
earlier  frontier  days  along  the  Missouri 
River,  before  he  had  come  out  to  the 
cattle  country  of  northwestern  Ne- 
braska. The  man  never  told  its  story. 

Lem  Jones  did  not  like  the  looks  of 
the  men  about  him.  Two  or  three  times 
before  in  his  life  he  had  seen  the  same 
dogged  silence  and  defiant  looks  in 
men  of  this  type,  and  nothing  good  had 
come  of  it. 

"Heard  of  the  murder?"  a  man  close 
to  him  asked,  resting  his  hand  on  the 
horse's  mane. 

"  Yes.  Just  heard  of  it.  What  are 
they  doing  up  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  the  same  man  answered; 
"  that  is,  when  I  left,  half  an  hour  ago. 
Doc's  there  and  half  a  dozen  women 
folks  are  lookin*  after  Mrs.  Baker; 
that  is,  they're  lookin'  after  the  chil- 
80  dren. 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

dren.  She's  hangin'  over  him  where 
he's  layin'  in  the  bedroom,  sobbin'  and 
moanin'  and  beggin'  him  to  speak  to 
her — not  ravin'  round  like  mad,  but  kind 
of  quiet  and  still  like.  And  Mrs.  Sefton 
told  me  her  eyes  have  been  as  dry  as 
two  marbles  ever  since  they  brought 
him  in  from  the  corral  where  they  found 
him  layin'  with  the  bullet  in  his  back  — 
dry  as  stones." 

No  one  answered.  The  same  eager, 
restless,  unnatural  silence  prevailed. 
Lem  Jones  threw  his  leg  back  to  the 
stirrup  and  sat  more  erect. 

"Well,  what're  you  goin'  to  do?"  he 
asked,  finally. 

Some  one  looked  up  at  the  man  on 
horseback  doggedly,  then  turned  away 
quickly,  as  if  to  read  the  signs  on  the 
low-porched  stores  opposite,  or  to  gaze 
far  out  on  the  widening  prairies.  One 
smiled  knowingly,  and  another — a  large, 
dark  man  in  a  wool  cap,  softly  whistled 
an  uncanny  air  through  his  teeth. 

"  We're  waitin',"  suddenly  said  the 
man  in  the  wool  cap,  stopping  his  whis- 
tling abruptly  and  grinning  savagely. 

"Then  keep  it  up,  and  let  the  law 

have  'em.    That's  the  best  thing  for  all 

of  us,  and   you  all  know  it.    Baker's 

killed,  true  enough,  shot  in  the   back, 

81  and 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

and  these  fellows  from  the  ranches  have 
given  us  trouble  enough,  God  knows. 
But  none  of  you  know  any  of  the  par- 
ticulars—  say,  do  you?  Just  how  it  all 
started  and  whose  cow  it  really  was, 
nor  who  fired  the  first  shot.  Now,  I'm 
not  defending  those  two  fellows  —  un- 
derstand that.  I'm  simply  asking  you 
men  to  wait.  If  they're  guilty  of  com- 
ing up  and  murdering  Baker  for  that 
cow,  they'll  hang  sure  and  certain." 

"Yes,  I'm  thinkin'  they'll  be  a  hangin', 
my  hearties,"  sang  out  the  man  with 
the  wool  cap. 

"  The  law'll  do  it,  then.  There's  time 
enough,  and  they  can't  get  away  from 
Hunker  and  his  men." 

Jones  slapped  the  reins  against  the 
horse's  neck  and  galloped  up  the  bare 
little  main  street,  past  the  brick  bank 
and  the  little  red  station  of  the  railroad 
and  on  up  the  valley  of  the  creek  to  his 
homestead,  three  miles  away.  As  he 
came  into  the  yard  the  moon  was  just 
rising  over  the  big  cottonwoods  down 
where  the  road  crossed  the  little  creek 
and  ran  on  up  the  opposite  slope  of  the 
prairie. 

Jones  had  lived  on  the  frontier  too 

long  for  surprises  of  any  kind,  and  when 

82  the 


AT   DAWN    OF  DAY 

the  same  crowd  of  men,  some  on  horse- 
back, a  few  on  foot,  a  wagon  or  two  fol- 
lowing in  the  rear,  drove  into  his  yard 
about  nine  o'clock  that  night,  he  felt 
what  was  coming.  He  knew  almost 
instinctively  that  their  slumbering  pas- 
sions had  been  fanned  into  a  flame  by 
news  from  the  sheriff,  and  that  they  had 
come  out  to  meet  that  officer  with  his 
prisoners,  and  that  they  desired  him  to 
be  a  party  to  their  night's  work. 

The  crowd  was  more  excited  than 
in  the  afternoon.  They  were  talking 
more,  and  a  little  old  man  on  the  wagon 
seat  was  singing  a  drunken  song.  Jones 
stood  by  the  windmill,  which  creaked 
dismally  in  the  night  breezes. 

"What  is  it,  boys?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"Lem,"  said  Bill  Stein,  the  liveryman, 
pushing  out  of  the  crowd  into  the  center 
of  the  semicircle  that  had  formed  about 
Jones — "Lem,  Hunker's  got  'em.  One 
of  his  men's  come  back  and  told  us,  and 
Jerry  Cotton's  just  come  in  from  New- 
ton's ranch,  where  he  met  a  man  who 
said  they'd  confessed.  We're  all  agreed 
that  these  two  fellows 's  got  to  be  strung 
up.  That'll  settle  this  cattle-claiming 
business  for  some  time  to  come.  We've 
run  the  risk  of  bein'  shot  down  like  dogs 
by  'em  long  enough." 
83  The 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

The  man  paused  to  see  if  Jones  would 
indorse  the  sentiment.  Jones  put  his 
foot  on  the  water-trough  and  pulled  at 
his  boot-strap,  but  said  nothing. 

"There's  no  danger,"  went  on  the 
liveryman,  slightly  discouraged  by  his 
failure  to  appeal  to  Jones ;  "  the  man 
who  came  on  ahead  says  the  sheriff  told 
him  they'd  cross  the  creek  down  here 
about  half-past  ten  or  eleven.  They'll 
get  out  of  the  way  and  leave  things  to 
us  and  the  cottonwoods." 

Jones  still  remained  silent,  gazing 
off  over  the  valley  to  the  dark  outlines 
on  the  opposite  side.  Then  he  looked 
at  the  cottonwoods  in  the  little  hollow 
a  hundred  yards  below,  and  then  around 
to  his  own  house  as  if  the  trees  were 
unpleasantly  near  his  home.  His  wife 
with  frightened  face  stood  in  the  door- 
way looking  at  him,  and  two  children  in 
white  night-dresses  peeped  out  from 
behind  her  skirts. 

"  What  more  do  you  know  about  this 
thing  than  you  did  this  afternoon  ? 
Merely  somebody's  word  that  they've 
confessed.  That's  all,  and  that's  sec- 
ond-hand, and  not  enough  for  the  busi- 
ness." 

"  Lem's  goin'  back  on  us,"  came  from 

some  one  in  the  crowd,  and  the  word 

84  "  coward  " 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

"coward"  came  from  no  one  knew 
where. 

Jones  straightened  up  quickly  and 
spoke  again. 

"  We've  got  lots  of  time,  boys,  before 
they  get  here,  and  I'll  tell  you  something 
that  happened  to  me  once  when  I  first 
came  out  West." 

"One  of  the  horses  hitched  to  the 
wagon  bit  at  the  neck  of  the  other,  and 
with  an  oath  the  driver  gave  a  jerk  at 
the  lines. 

"  It  was  in  the  sixties,"  Jones  con- 
tinued. "  A  schoolmate  and  I  had  come 
out  west  to  try  our  luck  and  make  our 
pile.  I  stopped  at  Brownville,  which 
was  the  boss  town  in  those  days,  but 
my  pard  went  on  farther  west,  and  I  lost 
track  of  him.  The  country  was  lively 
enough  then,  and  men  as  tough  as  any- 
where. There  was  always  claim-jump- 
ing going  on,  and  fights,  and  lots  of 
horse-stealing.  That  was  the  common- 
.est  of  all,  and  the  men  along  the  river 
formed  a  vigilance  committee  to  stop 
it.  It  was  the  first  in  Nebraska. 

"  I  had  not  been  there  long  before  I 
had  an  experience  with  this  committee. 
Some  horses  had  been  stolen  down  on 
the  Kansas  border,  and  the  thieves  had 
run  them  up  into  our  country  and  then 
85  started 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

started  west.  The  alarm  ran  to  Brown- 
ville  and  then  around  the  country. 
About  six  that  night  a  man  galloped  up 
to  our  place  and  told  us  to  be  at  John- 
son's corral  at  nine  o'clock.  I  was  not 
one  of  the  committee,  but  the  man  I  was 
working  for  told  me  to  come  along,  and 
I  went.  The  night  was  like  this — just 
as  bright  and  clear  and  pale-like.  That 
was  nearly  fifteen  years  ago,  yet  I  can 
remember  everything  in  that  ride  — 
every  bush,  every  tree  and  house,  along 
the  road. 

"When  we  got  to  Johnson's  place 
there  were  twenty  or  thirty  others  there, 
all  on  horseback.  There  was  a  wagon, 
too,  and  happening  to  stop  near  it,  I  saw 
an  ax  and  a  coil  of  rope  in  the  bottom, 
and  two  spades.  The  driver  looked 
around  at  me  and  laughed  and  winked 
significantly.  Then  some  one  handed 
him  a  black  bottle.  He  took  a  drink 
and  handed  it  to  me,  and  then  we  started 
to  go,  following  the  main-traveled  road 
in  a  westerly  direction  over  the  hills. 

"  There  had  been  perfect  silence  at 
the  corral  except  for  the  pawing  of  the 
horses  and  the  champing  at  their  bri- 
dles, and  now  on  the  road  to  the  ranch 
no  one  spoke.  All  the  men  seemed  to 
understand  perfectly  what  was  going 
86  on. 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

on.  It  was  all  strange  and  new  to  me, 
and  as  we  followed  the  trail  I  felt  a  keen 
fascination  —  the  spirit  of  the  hunter, 
growing  in  me.  My  blood  ran  hot,  and 
I  found  myself  spurring  on  as  eagerly 
as  the  rest. 

"  One  man  rode  on  a  few  feet  ahead 
of  the  others,  a  large  man  in  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  red  shirt,  and  long,  heavy 
boots.  He  held  the  reins  with  one  hand 
and  carried  a  shot-gun  across  the  sad- 
dle-horn with  the  other.  At  times  he 
would  stop  the  whole  party  by  holding 
up  his  hand.  He  would  dismount,  and 
kneeling,  examine  the  tracks  along  the 
trail,  and  then  mount  again,  riding  on 
as  stern  and  somber  as  death  itself. 

"  About  midnight  we  came  near  Rob- 
bin's  ranch,  and  suddenly  lost  the  tracks. 
The  man  in  the  red  shirt  dismounted, 
groped  about,  and  then  looked  off  across 
the  hills  in  all  directions.  Others  got 
down  and  examined  the  dust  of  the  road, 
and  all  fell  to  talking  hurriedly,  but 
scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper. 

"The  leader  finally  pointed  to  a 
wooded  ravine  some  distance  to  the  left, 
the  headwaters  of  the  Callahan,  and  we 
all  mounted  and  galloped  across  to  the 
little  growth  of  trees  and  brush.  We 
formed  a  line  at  the  lower  end,  and  get- 
87  ting 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

ting  to  our  feet,  beat  our  way  slowly  up 
the  ravine,  like  an  attacking  party.  At 
the  very  apex  of  the  growth  we  found 
four  horses  —  three  bays  and  a  white 
mare — tied  to  some  young  saplings. 

"The  boys  pulled  the  animals  out 
into  the  moonlight. 

"'Just  the  description!'  said  the 
leader. 

"'White  one  limp  any?'  asked  some 
one. 

"  They  hit  the  mare  on  the  back  with 
a  whip  and  it  started  up  quickly.  There 
was  a  slight  catch  in  its  movements. 

"  'Just  right,'  said  the  leader.  'They're 
warm  yet,  too,'  putting  his  bare  hand  on 
the  flank  of  one  of  the  bays.  '  Now  for 
Robbins's.' 

"Robbins's  ranch,  a  sort  of  road-house 
for  travelers  along  the  California  trail, 
was  a  lonely,  rambling  frame  structure 
standing  white  against  the  sky  a  good 
mile  away.  We  rode  up  to  it  quietly 
and  gathered  in  a  bunch  behind  the  barn 
some  distance  from  the  house,  which 
was  dark  and  gloomy,  and  cast  a  long, 
black,  ugly  shadow  far  down  the  hillside. 
A  dog  suddenly  came  creeping  around 
the  barn  and  growled  ominously.  One 
of  the  men  cut  at  it  with  his  whip,  and  it 
went  yelping  down  the  path  to  the  barn. 
88  "  The 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

"The  man  in  the  red  shirt  spoke 
shortly. 

"'Men,  they're  probably  in  there. 
We'll  ride  around  the  house.  If  they 
start  to  run,  shoot  'em  down.  Pass  the 
bottle.' 

"The  whisky  went  around  twice. 
Then  we  quickly  surrounded  the  house, 
and  the  leader  gave  a  loud  knock  on  the 
door.  Robbins,  the  ranchman  and  ho- 
tel-keeper, put  his  frowsy  head  out  of 
an  upper  window.  In  the  moonlight  his 
face  looked  pale  and  strangely  drawn 
and  his  eyes  seemed  big  and  restless. 

" '  What's  up  ? '  he  asked  bravely. 

" '  Come,  old  man,  open  up  here,'  the 
red-shirted  man  answered.  '  We're  af- 
ter some  fellows  you've  got  in  here.' 

"  The  man  drew  in  his  head  quickly. 
All  was  silent.  Then  a  dim,  uncertain 
light  appeared  along  the  wall  of  the 
lower  room,  which  grew  brighter.  The 
door  was  thrown  open  and  the  crowd 
burst  in.  I  with  two  or  three  others 
stayed  outside  and  held  the  horses.  In- 
side we  could  see  men  moving  about, 
and  then  a  light  appeared  again  in  the 
sleeping-loft  above.  This  went  out  and 
there  was  silence  again.  It  seemed  an 
hour  that  the  others  were  gone.  Sud- 
denly I  found  my  knees  shaking  as  if  I 
89  had 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

had  the  ague,  and  the  pale,  ghostly 
moonlight  and  that  awful  silence  of  the 
men  and  the  place  weighed  down  upon 
me  like  the  stillness  of  a  tomb. 

"There  was  a  hurried  movement 
within  and  everybody  came  out  of  the 
door  pell-mell.  I  saw  three  bound  men 
pushed  along  in  their  midst — two  large, 
burly-looking  fellows,  and  one  more 
slight  and  slender,  almost  boyish.  That 
was  all  I  could  see  as  they  laid  them  flat 
in  the  wagon.  Then  we  all  went  back 
toward  the  river,  the  men  surrounding 
the  wagon  two  deep  and  silent  as 
statues. 

"  Being  young  and  comparatively  un- 
known, I  kept  well  in  the  rear  and  could 
not  see  the  thieves  in  the  wagon,  but 
from  time  to  time  I  heard  one  of  them 
laugh  or  joke  easily  with  the  other,  and 
then  there  came  in  frightened  tones, 
evidently  from  the  younger  one,  ques- 
tions as  if  he  didn't  understand. 

" '  What  is  it?  What's  all  this  mean? 
My  God,  what's  the  matter?'  he  kept 
asking,  his  voice  broken  and  unnatural 
with  fear. 

" '  Matter  enough  for  you,  chicken- 
heart,'   some  one    answered    roughly. 
'  Say  your  prayers,  kid,  and  damn  quick 
at  that.' 
90  "We 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

"  We  had  been  riding  two  hours  or 
so  toward  the  river,  and  now  came  down 
into  a  ravine  thick  with  brush.  I  can 
see  that  place  yet  —  all  trees  and  sun- 
flower stalks  and  hazel  brush,  and  one 
old  cottonwood  standing  straight  up  in 
the  center  with  an  arm  projecting  al- 
most at  a  right  angle  from  the  trunk. 
That  was  about  all  we  could  see,  and 
that  only  faintly,  because  the  leaves  shut 
out  the  moonlight. 

"  The  wagon  stopped  under  the  tree. 
The  young  man,  looking  up,  saw  that 
limb,  and  then  it  all  dawned  on  him 
fully. 

"'What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
me  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
me  ? '  he  screamed  in  terror,  and  I  could 
hear  him  thrashing  about  in  the  wagon- 
box  to  get  free.  Somehow  a  strange 
feeling  came  over  me  then — a  feeling  of 
something  wrong,  of  something  into 
which  I  was  strangely  and  fatally  drawn 
— but  the  awfulness  of  the  whole  scene 
held  me  with  a  powerful  fascination,  and 
drove  all  reason  or  ordinary  feeling  and 
thought  from  me. 

"Two  men  had  taken  the  spades 

from  the  wagon  beside  him,  and  by  the 

light  of  a  lantern  had  begun  digging  a 

hole  in  the  ground. 

91  " '  What 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

"'What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
that  rope  and  those  spades  —  my  God, 
tell  me!' 

" '  We're  goin'  to  hang  you  fellers,' 
a  brutal  voice  came  out  of  the  darkness. 

" '  Not  me  !  not  me  !  not  me!'  the  boy 
screamed  and  then  broke  in  a  sob  and 
was  quite  still.  Afterwards  some  of  the 
men  said  he  muttered  softly  to  himself 
as  if  praying,  and  some  one  heard  him 
say  '  Mother '  and  '  Mary '  softly  to  him- 
self. 

"The  other  prisoners  played  the 
game  with  iron  nerve.  They  sat,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  in  the  back  of  the  wagon, 
and  coolly  eyed  the  men  about  them, 
gazed  at  the  trees  critically,  and  when 
some  unexpected  noise  sounded  far 
away  among  the  trees,  looked  at  each 
other  swiftly  and  with  brightening  eyes. 

" '  Getting  tired  down  there  ? '  one  of 
them  asked  the  diggers.  '  Put  Bill  and 
me  down  there  and  we'll  see  how  it  goes 
to  dig  our  own  grave.  Eh,  Bill  ?  It'll 
rest  us,  too.' 

"  The  audacity  of  the  thing  took  the 
crowd,  and  they  untied  the  hands  and 
feet  of  the  prisoners  and  dropped  them 
into  the  half-dug  hole.  Perhaps  the 
two  thought  to  make  a  break  for  free- 
dom somehow,  but  the  men  stood  close 
92  about 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

about  them  and  drew  slip-knots  tight 
about  their  necks. 

" '  How  ye  like  your  harness  ? '  asked 
one  of  the  thieves. 

"'Rather  wearing  on  the  nerves, 
that's  all,'  responded  the  other,  and 
laughed  up  at  the  crowd. 

"  By  the  time  the  grave  was  finished, 
the  crowd  was  growing  impatient. 
They  made  the  two  grave-diggers  get 
into  the  wagon.  Some  one  climbed  to 
the  limb  of  the  tree  and  tied  the  loose 
ends  of  the  rope  securely.  Then  they 
made  the  boy  get  up,  and  they  placed  a 
rope  about  his  neck,  and  tossed  the 
loose  end  to  the  man  in  the  tree.  The 
boy  did  not  resist,  but  he  kept  shouting 
to  the  crowd  to  hear  him,  that  he  had 
something  to  say. 

"  There  was  a  good  deal  of  noise  at 
the  time.  Some  of  the  men  were  swear- 
ing and  shouting  that  they  had  waited 
too  long,  and  yelling  to  '  string  'em  up!' 
Others  were  backing  their  horses  about 
in  the  underbrush,  and  shouting  to  one 
another  for  this  or  that.  But  the  boy 
knew  it  was  his  last  chance.  With  a 
courage  born  of  despair  he  kept  shout- 
ing for  them  to  hear  him,  to  listen  to 
his  story. 

"  Finally  the  leader  shouted  out  in  a 
93  big 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

big  voice,  '  Give  the  boy  a  chance.  Let 
him  have  his  say ! ' 

"The  crowd  quieted  down  a  little,  like 
savage  beasts  held  at  bay,  and  the  lad 
began. 

"It  was  just  beginning  to  get  the 
least  bit  light  in  the  east,  and  gray  dawn 
was  creeping  in  among  the  trees.  A 
dog  barked  hoarsely  far  away  among 
the  hills  and  a  rooster  crowed.  An 
early  bird  started  up  suddenly,  then 
stopped  abruptly.  A  soft  wind  rustled 
among  the  leaves  and  the  grass.  The 
horses  champed  upon  their  bits,  and  the 
wagon  creaked  as  the  horses  hitched  to 
it  moved  restlessly  back  and  forth.  The 
men  were  gathered  about  the  wagon, 
and  the  grave  beside  it  in  a  dark  mass, 
and  above  it  the  three  men  stood  out- 
lined against  the  gray  dawn  in  the 
east. 

"  Their  backs  were  to  me,  but  some- 
thing familiar  about  the  boy  struck 
me  then  for  the  first  time.  He  began 
to  speak,  and  his  voice  ran  through 
m«  with  a  strange,  illusive,  terrifying 
thrill. 

"  I  cannot  repeat  to  you  all  he  said, 
but  he  went  on  to  tell  the  crowd  that  he 
had  come  out  west  but  a  few  weeks  be- 
fore, that  he  had  gone  up  the  Platte  for 
94  work. 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

work.  He  had  found  none,  and  was  now 
returning  east.  He  was  simply  spend- 
ing the  night  at  the  ranch.  He  had 
never  seen  the  other  two  men  before. 
The  ranchman,  Robbins,  could  tell  them 
that.  So  could  the  other  two.  He  turned 
to  them  and  they  swore  it  was  so. 

" '  Oh,  it's  a  trick.  They're  trying  to 
save  one  of  the  gang,'  somebody  shouted 
out.  '  Can't  come  that  on  us.  Drive  up 
there,  Collins,  and  let's  shove  'em  into 
kingdom  come  and  be  done.' 

"  The  young  man  went  on,  but  more 
quietly,  as  if  all  hope  were  gone.  He 
said  he  had  come  back  to  visit  a  friend 
near  Brownville  —  an  old  schoolmate. 
If  they  would  give  him  until  the  next 
day,  he  would  prove  it.  His  name  was 
— and  then  he  named  me. 

"  Everything  came  back  to  me  with 
a  rush.  I  remembered  then.  I  saw  it 
all.  In  the  darkness  and  the  crowd  I 
had  not  recognized  him.  But  I  knew 
his  voice  then.  I  knew  his  form  in  the 
spreading  dawn. 

"  I  did  not  wait.  I  jumped  from  my 
horse.  I  broke  through  the  crowd  and 
climbed  to  the  wagon.  I  shouted  at  the 
top  of  my  voice.  I  told  them  it  was  all 
true.  He  was  my  friend.  They  were 
hanging  an  innocent  man.  They  were 
95  all 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

all  murderers.  I  begged  them  to  wait 
until  daylight.  I  would  stand  for  him. 
I  promised  everything  if  they  would 
wait,  only  wait  until  daylight. 

"  Suddenly  a  perfect  roar  arose.  The 
whole  crowd  was  shouting  and  swear- 
ing and  yelling  at  once.  Some  were 
crying  out,  '  Don't  hang  the  boy !  Let 
him  go!  It's  a  mistake!  Cut  him  down!' 
But  others  were  yelling,  '  Hang  him  ! 
String  'em  all  up !  He's  one  of  'em !  It's 
a  damned  trick!  Swing  'em.' 

"  All  at  once  the  wagon  gave  a  lurch 
forward.  I  lost  my  balance.  I  clutched 
at  the  wagon  side,  but  went  headlong 
down  the  bank,  crashing  through  the 
thick  brush.  The  fall  stunned  me. 

"The  stillness  of  death  had  come 
over  the  place  when  I  got  back  to  the 
tree.  The  light  was  just  streaming 
over  the  hill  full  upon  the  three  black 
forms  swinging  in  the  breeze.  I  saw 
only  one  —  the  lifeless  body  of  my  mur- 
dered friend.  That's  all,  boys.  I'm  go- 
ing in  now." 

Jones  turned  and  moved  toward  his 
wife  and  children  still  standing  in  the 
doorway.  The  group  of  men  still  re- 
mained silent.  The  horses  could  be 
heard  shoving  the  hay  about  in  their 
mangers.  A  night  bird  flew  overhead 
96  with 


AT   DAWN    OF   DAY 

with  flapping  wings.  The  windmill 
creaked. 

One  by  one  the  men  turned  and  moved 
out  of  the  farm-yard.  Some  went  up 
the  road  and  some  back  to  the  village. 

About  midnight  Lem  Jones  heard  a 
noise.  He  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Two  bound  men  surrounded 
by  four  others,  all  on  horseback,  were 
passing.  He  watched  them  in  the  moon- 
light as  they  went  on  down  the  road, 
past  the  big  cottonwoods  at  the  cross- 
ing of  the  Sandy,  and  over  the  level 
prairie  until  they  disappeared  up  the 
hillside  beyond.  Then  he  turned  back 
to  his  bed  and  went  to  sleep. 


97 


THE  BLIZZARD 

¥ 


THE  BLIZZARD 


ND  now  the  story,"  I  insisted. 
It  was  New- Year's  night.  The 
guests  had  departed,  the  chil- 
dren had  gone  to  bed.  In  the 
parlor,  where  the  light  was  low,  we  sat 
before  the  fireplace,  my  aunt  and  I 
alone.  In  the  library  Uncle  John  had 
drawn  on  his  smoking-jacket  and  thrown 
himself  into  the  depths  of  a  great  leath- 
ern chair.  Through  the  half-drawn  por- 
tieres we  could  see  his  profile,  his  head 
thrown  back  against  the  cushion  as  he 
gently  puffed  curls  of  smoke  and  watched 
them  float  slowly  upward.  Whatever 
his  thought  was,  it  filled  his  mind  com- 
pletely, for  he  seemed  neither  to  hear 
the  storm  as  it  tore  through  the  shrub- 
bery and  beat  against  the  windows,  nor 
to  see  us  in  the  dimly  lighted  parlor. 
I  glanced  from  him  to  my  aunt,  and 
spoke  again. 

"  And  now  the  story." 
She  did  not  answer,  but  sat  gazing 
ioi  into 


THE  BLIZZARD 

into  the  fire,  its  flames  playing  fitfully 
upon  her  face.  Her  hair  was  silvered 
slightly  and  faint  crow's-feet  were  web- 
bing here  and  there  upon  her  cheeks, 
but  they  were  yet  fair  with  the  delicate 
bloom  of  middle  age,  and  her  large  dark 
brown  eyes  were  soft  and  tender. 

"  You  have  promised  me  so  long  and 
have  never  told  it,  and  this  was  the 
night." 

"Well,  dear?" 

And  this  is  the  story  as  she  told  it. 

It  was  New  Year's  day  of  the  "great 
winter,"  as  they  call  it,  a  day  that  had 
dawned  quiet,  intensely  cold  and  sullen. 
The  chimney-smoke  went  straight  up 
to  the  heavy  gray  clouds  above  in  nar- 
row, ever-twisting  columns.  Wagons 
crunching  over  the  beaten  roads  a  mile 
away  could  be  heard  through  the  cold, 
crisp  air.  Under  the  sheds  the  cows 
huddled  close,  with  frosty  noses  steam- 
ing across  each  other's  shoulders.  The 
fowls  remained  in  the  barns,  sitting 
motionless  on  the  rafters  and  the  tops 
of  the  stalls.  Even  the  dogs  kept  to 
their  kennels.  All  the  earth  was  per- 
vaded with  a  death-like  calm,  yet  over 
the  frozen  fields  the  snow  swirled  round 
and  round  in  little  eddies,  scudding 
102  along 


THE  BLIZZARD 

along  the  hilltops  and  then  out  of  sight 
into  the  hollows. 

"  Signs,"  muttered  the  men,  gazing 
anxiously  at  the  clouds  ;  and  they  fell 
to  heaping  high  the  wood  about  the  fire- 
places, and  to  banking  anew  the  cellars 
and  the  sheds  and  stables.  In  their 
haste  was  the  fear  of  age,  fear  that  was 
no  stranger  to  them;  but  Jack  and  I 
read  nothing  in  the  gloom  and  the  hush 
that  had  spread  over  the  fields  and  the 
valleys.  For  the  annual  New  Year's 
dance  was  to  be  held  that  night  at  the 
Bend,  fifteen  miles  down  the  river,  and 
we  were  going. 

"Let  a  pack  of  old  men's  fancies 
frighten  us  out?"  said  Jack  as  we  came 
out  to  the  cutter  hitched  at  the  front 
gate.  "  Just  think  of  missing  the  sup- 
per— an  oyster  supper  out  here  in  Ne- 
braska—  fried,  scalloped,  roasted,  and 
raw  —  a  turkey  stuffed  with 'em  —  and 
cranberry-sauce  strained  and  jellied  — 
and  celery.  This  celery  came  from 
Kalamazoo,  Michigan,  and  it's  the  first 
we've  had  for  years,  and  the  boys  or- 
dered it  just  for  the  party.  Oh,  come 
now,  you  want  to  go,  don't  you  ?  I 
planned  it  all  for  your  pleasure.  I  wanted 
this  New  Year's  day  to  be  your  very 
best  one." 
103  But 


THE  BLIZZARD 

But  I  still  stood  beside  the  cutter 
with  my  skirts  gathered  in  my  hand, 
while  he  pulled  at  the  folds  of  his  cap 
awkwardly. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  he  asked,  laugh- 
ingly, not  knowing  my  thoughts  were 
for  him.  "  It's  an  ugly  enough  road  in 
and  out  and  over  those  hills  and  hol- 
lows and  ravines  along  the  river.  But 
we  can  make  it  in  two  hours  easily. 
Let  me  wrap  the  robes  tight  about  you, 
Indian  fashion.  It's  warmer  that  way. 
Ah,  the  red  just  suits  your  dark  com- 
plexion." And  we  started. 

"  Old  Headland's  murky  enough  to- 
day. You  notice  how  it  has  a  sort  of 
'low-barometer'  appearance  about  the 
edges,"  he  went  on  as  we  left  the  little 
settlement  in  the  valley  below  and 
swung  up  Hayward's  Hill  and  caught 
a  view  of  the  wide  Platte  valley  stretch- 
ing off  to  the  northwest  —  one  expanse 
of  dull,  gleamless  snow,  hedged  in  on 
either  side  by  the  hills  and  broken  only 
by  the  darker  color  of  the  frozen  river 
and  the  fringe  of  trees  along  its  banks. 
Far  to  the  north  the  Headland  jutted  in 
and  shut  out  the  view,  its  brow  envel- 
oped in  heavy,  threatening  clouds. 

Jack  leaned  forward  and  drawing  the 

whip  from  the  stock  flecked  the  lagging 

104  sorrel, 


THE  BLIZZARD 

sorrel,  and  the  cutter  sped  over  the  road 
as  along  a  narrow  winding  ribbon  of 
glass,  the  horses'  shoes  keeping  up  a 
metallic  "  click-click  "  upon  the  beaten 
and  frozen  snow. 

I  nestled  my  chin  and  face  down  into 
my  furs,  leaning  back  and  watching  him 
from  the  corner  of  my  eyes.  He  sat  as 
straight  as  an  arrow,  taking  the  breeze 
full  in  the  face.  His  coat-collar  was  not 
buttoned  close,  but  showed  the  deep 
rich  red  that  had  mantled  his  neck  and 
cheeks.  A  little  stray  lock  of  wavy 
brown  hair  had  stolen  from  under  his 
cap.  And  he  wore  the  bit  of  red  gera- 
nium I  had  placed  in  his  overcoat  lapel 
just  as  we  started. 

A  mile  beyond  Bentley's  place  the 
road  dipped  down  into  one  of  those  little 
hollows  so  numerous  along  the  South- 
Platte  hills,  where  stunted  trees  and 
bushes  and  dead  sunflower  stalks  lined 
either  side. 

In  descending  the  incline  one  of  the 
traces  was  loosened.  Fortunately,  we 
were  near  the  bottom  of  the  little  hill, 
and,  throwing  the  reins  to  me,  Jack 
sprang  out  to  fasten  it.  Just  as  he 
turned  back  to  the  sleigh  again,  there 
was  a  rustle  in  the  bushes,  the  sound 
of  twigs  snapping,  dead  weeds  giv- 
105  ing 


THE  BLIZZARD 

ing  way,  and  frozen  snow  crunching 
softly. 

Jack  stopped  short,  turned,  pushed 
back  his  cap,  and  listened. 

Patter,  patter,  then  again  the  crack- 
ling of  the  weeds,  but  not  so  near.  Then 
sudden  silence,  such  as  comes  to  one  at 
dead  of  night.  The  horses  stood  per- 
fectly motionless,  their  manes  blowing 
slightly,  their  ears  erect,  their  nostrils 
quivering. 

Jack  turned  his  head  and  nodded  to 
me  significantly.  Then  he  wheeled 
about  again,  waited,  and  watched  the 
thicket  narrowly. 

All  around  was  perfect  silence,  in- 
tensified by  the  dead  whiteness  of  it 
all,  for  the  slightly  undulating  prairie 
stretched  far  away  to  the  east. 

The  road  ran  on  up  a  little  hill,  dis- 
appeared, was  seen  again,  and  then  lost 
itself  in  the  distance.  Here  and  there 
to  the  right  and  left  were  little  hollows 
with  meager  growth  of  dead  weeds  and 
dried  buffalo-grass,  and  stunted  shrubs 
on  the  more  level  parts  dotted  the  snow- 
white  surface  of  the  earth.  No  rabbit 
crossed  the  road.  No  dog  skulked 
across  the  fields.  No  man  appeared  on 
the  hilltops.  No  other  living  thing  in 
sight.  Over  all  lay  the  silence — the  si- 
106  lence 


THE  BLIZZARD 

lence  that  startles  and  yet  deadens,  the 
silence  of  the  sepulchre. 

Suddenly  the  horses  pricked  back 
their  ears,  and  then  from  behind  the 
cutter  there  came  again  the  crackling 
of  twigs,  the  crunching  of  snow.  Jack 
and  I  both  turned  at  once.  Something 
gray  leaped  into  the  road  and  instantly 
slunk  into  the  underbrush  of  the  oppo- 
site side. 

For  a  moment  Jack  stood  peering 
into  the  thicket.  But  silence  deeper  than 
before  reigned  over  the  place. 

"  Well,  we  got  a  good  sight  of  him, 
anyway.  I'd  have  given  a  good  deal  for 
a  shotgun.  He  was  as  big  and  as  gray 
and  as  shaggy  as  the  one  Sam  Mason 
shot  down  on  Hinkley's  Island  before 
Christmas.  What  a  splendid  trophy 
it  would  have  made  for  the  dance  to- 
night." 

Then  he  noticed  my  silence,  and  turn- 
ing, must  have  seen  the  tell-tale  fright 
in  my  eyes. 

"Oh,  afraid?  You  coward  you!"  he 
said,  laughingly.  Do  you  think  one  lone- 
some old  wolf  that  can't  muster  nerve 
enough  to  yelp  is  going  to  scare  up  a 
whole  colony  of  the  beasts  and  chase 
us  to  the  Bend?" 

"  No,  but  they  bring  bad  luck,"  I  said. 
107  "I 


THE  BLIZZARD 

"  I  know  that  something  will  happen  — 
it  always  does." 

For  I  could  not  but  think  of  that 
night  years  ago,  long  before  Jack  came, 
when  as  a  girl  I  had  stayed  with  my 
grandmother,  who  was  too  sick  to  be 
left  alone  and  my  mother  was  worn  out 
with  watching.  All  during  the  long 
hours,  far  away  among  the  hollows  and 
hills,  and  nearer,  down  by  the  creek,  I 
had  heard  them  snarling  and  yelping 
and  growling.  At  dawn  they  ceased. 
At  least  I  heard  them  no  more,  for  she 
had  died  at  daybreak.  And  I  told  Jack, 
but  he  could  not  understand. 

"  Why,  of  course  you  heard  them,  but 
they  didn't  foretell  your  grandmother's 
death.  They  kept  up  their  infernal 
racket  around  the  place  because  they 
had  made  a  haul  from  somewhere  and 
were  wrangling  over  the  find.  Don't 
think  any  more  about  it,  but  tell  me  how 
many  dances  I  get  with  you  to-night." 

The  sun  came  creeping  out  from  the 
clouds  reassuringly  just  then.  There 
were  a  few  faint  streaks  of  indistinct 
red  and  yellow  across  the  fields,  and 
then  the  clouds  slowly  closed  in  and 
over  its  face.  It  was  then  about  half- 
past  four  o'clock.  We  were  two-thirds 
of  the  way  to  the  Bend  and  were  just 
108  entering 


THE  BLIZZARD 

entering  the  little  valley  of  Pawnee 
Creek,  which  takes  its  name  from  the 
Indians  who  formerly  dwelt  in  a  village 
at  the  foot  of  the  great  round  knob- 
shaped  hill  where  the  stream  enters  the 
Platte. 

"  Kate,"  Jack  said  as  we  crossed  the 
little  bridge  and  started  up  the  hill  out 
of  the  valley — "Kate,"  and  his  voice  was 
very  soft  and  gentle  then,  and  there  was 
something  in  it  so  new  that  it  sent  a 
thrill  all  through  me.  "  Kate," — he  hesi- 
tated, and  somehow  I  knew  that  he  had 
turned  half  around  to  look  at  me,  but 
for  all  my  life  I  could  only  gaze  straight 
ahead  up  the  irregular  road  that  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  opened  new  visions  to 
me.  He  turned  back  to  the  horses  and 
was  silent,  and  I  would  have  given  my 
life  to  have  had  him  speak  again.  And 
then  it  burst  upon  me,  and — well,  I  knew 
as  I  never  knew  before. 

"Kate,"  he  said,  "there's  something 
I  must  tell  you  right  now.  I've  wanted 
to  speak  of  it  so  often  of  late,  but  some- 
how— somehow — this  is  different — and 
—  and — why,  don't  you  see,  Kate,  don't 
you  know — I — " 

And  I  knew ;  but  before  I  could  let 
him  see,  something  happened.  A  sim- 
ple gust  of  wind  blew  a  handful  of  snow 
109  sharply 


THE  BLIZZARD 

sharply  against  our  faces.  The  horses 
sniffed  uneasily,  pricked  up  their  ears, 
moved  nervously  as  if  in  dumb  fright. 
Through  the  silence  of  death  which  lay 
upon  the  hills  and  the  river  there  came 
stealing  down  from  the  north  the  faint 
rumbling  of  a  thousand  hoarse  throats 
far  away,  then  a  growling  and  distant 
muffled  roaring,  and  then  nearer  and 
nearer  and  nearer  a  pitching  and  rolling 
and  thunderous  crashing  as  of  a  thou- 
sand wagons  with  teams  running  wild 
to  their  destruction. 

The  wind  blew  a  gale  now,  sweeping 
up  and  beating  the  snow  against  our 
faces  with  the  sting  of  red-hot  needles. 
The  air  was  a  blinding  sea  of  white,  a 
greenish  yellowish  white,  that  spread 
over  the  prairie  a  darkness  and  yet  not 
a  darkness,  something  strangely  op- 
pressive, mysterious,  deadening. 

"  It's  no  use,"  Jack  shouted  above 
the  roar  of  the  wind.  "  We  can't  go  on; 
we  must  find  a  house — got  to  get  back 
to  Bentley's.  Can  you  hear — get  down 
into  the  sleigh — do  you  hear — the  bot- 
tom? Hurry,  get  down,  get  down — the 
blanket — over  your  head — all  right — 
now." 

The  horses  plunged  forward  with 

terrific  speed.    The  cutter  rocked  as  an 

no  open 


THE  BLIZZARD 

open  boat  on  a  high  sea.  Suddenly  I 
knew  that  we  had  lost  the  road,  for  I 
could  feel  Jack's  body  pitch  and  lurch 
with  the  swaying  of  the  sleigh  as  it 
crashed  over  bushes  and  fallen  trees, 
and  once  he  fell  heavily  upon  me.  But 
I  scarcely  felt  it  then,  for  I  had  crept 
closer  into  the  bottom  of  the  cutter  and 
had  buried  my  face  in  the  robes  to  shut 
out  the  hideous  darkness  that  seemed 
to  penetrate  my  very  brain. 

The  cutter  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 
There  was  a  great  straining,  a  faint 
splintering  and  cracking  of  wood,  and 
then  I  was  thrown  headlong  into  the 
snow.  The  cutter  had  caught  on  a 
fallen  tree,  and  the  horses  were  run- 
ning madly  over  the  hills. 

Jack  tenderly  lifted  me  up,  stunned 
and  bewildered,  and  fell  to  brushing 
gently  the  snow  from  my  face  and 
hair. 

"God,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  and  I 
scarcely  knew  his  voice.  And  then, 
"Dear,  there's  but  one  thing.  Stay 
under  the  sleigh.  I'm  going  for  help." 
Taking  out  the  seat,  he  pushed  back 
the  snow  from  under  the  cutter. 

"No,  Jack,  Jack,  not  that;  you  must 

not  go,  Jack— must  not  go — I  cannot — 

oh,  Jack";  but  my  words  were  lost  in 

in  the 


THE  BLIZZARD 

the  storm  and  he  did  not  hear.  He  had 
cleared  the  snow  away  and  had  placed 
the  blankets  upon  the  ground,  shouting 
to  me  to  lie  down  and  let  him  wrap 
them  about  me.  I  did  not  move,  and 
again  he  shouted  to  me,  but  I  stub- 
bornly refused,  standing  there  gazing 
at  the  ground,  and  he  could  not  under- 
stand, thinking  it  cowardly  fear  or  a 
woman's  weakness. 

"  Come  —  quick ! "  he  insisted. 

"Jack,  Jack  —  no  —  I  cannot  —  not 
that." 

"You  fool,"  he  burst  out;  "you'll  kill 
us  both.  I  thought  you  a  woman,  and 
you're  only  a  child.  But  you  shall  get 
under  there."  And  he  seized  me  by  the 
wrist  and  pulled  me  toward  the  cutter. 
He  was  so  close  that  I  could  see  his 
hair  covered  with  snow  and  ice  and 
the  bit  of  red  geranium,  wilted  and 
frozen  now.  He  was  breathing  so  hard 
that  I  could  feel  his  breath  against 
my  face.  But  our  eyes  did  not  meet. 
Without  a  word  I  crept  under  the 
cutter  and  with  closed  eyes  let  him 
wrap  the  blankets  tight  about  me, 
caring  little  then  for  wind  or  snow  or 
storm,  for  it  seemed  as  if  my  heart 
were  dead.  Still,  without  a  word  I  let 
him  drop  the  cutter  over  me,  and 
112  outside 


THE  BLIZZARD 

outside  there  was  no  sound  save  the 
ceaseless  roaring  of  the  wind. 

Suddenly  the  cutter  was  lifted  again 
and  a  face  was  bending  close  to  mine. 

"  Kate,  forgive  me.  I  was  angry, 
dear.  God  knows  I  didn't  mean  it;  I 
wouldn't  pain  you  for  the  world.  For 
don't  you  see,  I  love  you,  dear  —  have 
loved  you  for  months  and  couldn't  speak 
it — not  even  to-day — and  now  perhaps 
for  the  last  time  I  must,  and — " 

He  caught  the  glad  light  in  my  eyes. 
"And  so  keep  a  good  heart,  love;  the 
world  is  fair,  even  to-day." 

He  knelt  and  kissed  my  lips  twice, 
and  drew  the  blanket  tighter  about  me. 
And  I  fell  to  weeping  softly  while  he 
went  plunging  forth  into  the  outer  dark- 
ness and  the  storm. 

A  long  time  I  lay  there  under  the 
sleigh,  listening  to  the  wind  rushing  by 
and  the  snow  beating  against  the  sides 
of  the  cutter.  Little  clouds  of  snow  as 
fine  as  mist  whipped  in  through  the 
cracks  and  under  the  edges  and  stole 
in  between  the  folds  of  the  blanket,  and 
I  could  feel  them  floating  over  my 
cheeks,  building  narrow  ridges  across 
my  forehead  and  gathering  in  the  cor- 
ners of  my  eyes.  Then  this  ceased  and 
the  roaring  of  the  wind  died  away.  I 
113  did 


THE  BLIZZARD 

did  not  know  then  that  the  sleigh  was 
nearly  buried  and  that  over  it  the  storm 
was  still  sweeping  on  furiously. 

I  thought  it  all  had  ended,  and  lis- 
tened with  bursting  ears  for  Jack's  re- 
turn. My  arms  and  legs  were  cramped 
and  numb  and  my  body  cold  as  ice. 
When  I  closed  my  teeth,  sharp  pains 
darted  through  my  forehead  and  across 
my  eyes.  Once  I  heard  a  shout  and  half 
raised  myself,  but  all  was  silent  as  the 
grave. 

I  lay  back  wearily,  but  my  body  ached 
no  longer.  My  head  seemed  a  stone. 
My  eyelids  were  as  lead  and  kept  slip- 
ping down  over  my  eyeballs  until  I 
could  hold  them  up  no  longer.  Making 
one  frantic  effort  to  keep  awake,  I  half 
raised  myself  and  tried  to  cry  out.  But 
I  sank  back  exhausted,  consciousness 
slipping  from  me — in  my  ears  the  same 
distant  uncertain  shouting  as  before, 
in  my  eyes  a  figure  fighting  desperately 
against  the  whirling,  deadening  sea  of 
whitish,  greenish  black. 

The  log  in  the  fireplace  had  burned 
low  and  was  falling  into  dying  embers. 
Far  away  a  whistle  sounded  distant 
and  muffled.  Outside  the  winter  winds 
sobbed  among  the  bare  trees.  Some- 
114  where 


THE  BLIZZARD 

where  in  the  house  a  door  slammed  shut 
and  its  sound  went  echoing  through 
the  halls.  The  log  burst  forth  in  a  fee- 
ble burst  of  flame  and  then  died  down 
completely. 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  in  silence. 
Then  she  arose  quietly  and  entered  the 
library,  where  he  was  stretched  out  in 
the  leather  chair  holding  a  dead  cigar 
between  his  fingers  and  gazing  at  the 
ceiling. 

She  leaned  over  him  from  behind  the 
chair.  "  Jack,  dear,  I  have  been  telling 
the  story  of  our  ride." 

He  reached  up  and  took  one  of  her 
hands  in  his. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  softly.  "It  was  thirty 
years  ago  to-night." 

Stooping  lower  she  kissed  him  gently 
and  fell  to  running  her  fingers  tenderly 
over  his  forehead  and  brushing  back 
the  hair  from  his  temples,  with  a  little 
sigh  of  content. 


ASHLEY 


ASHLEY 


R.  R.  S.  ASHLEY,  his  wife,  and 
his  sixteen-year-old  son  had 
arrived  in  Chicago  and  were 
staying  at  the  Great  Northern. 
They  had  come  from  their  little  home 
town  in  northwestern  Nebraska  to  see 
the  World's  Fair  —  a  visit  they  had 
planned  and  looked  forward  to  since  a 
certain  evening  in  early  spring  when 
Ashley  had  brought  home  an  "  Official 
Guide,"  and  had  unfolded  to  the  family 
his  scheme  for  "Tad's  graduation 
present"  and  "mother's  long-earned 
holiday."  And  so  all  through  his  last 
term  in  the  high  school,  the  final  ex- 
aminations, and  the  graduation  exer- 
cises, Tad  was  dreaming  of  the  trip  to 
come.  To  Ashley  himself  there  was 
more  pleasure  in  the  planning  than  in 
the  actual  going.  Every  night  after 
business  hours  he  would  get  out  the 
guide-book  and  with  "Tad"  and  "moth- 
er" plan  little  excursions  over  the 
119  grounds, 


ASHLEY 

grounds,  little  programs  for  the  even- 
ings, and  little  lists  of  things  to  pur- 
chase for  their  friends.  The  memoranda 
he  would  place  in  his  notebook  along 
with  another  list  of  pleasures  which  he 
alone  had  planned  for  his  wife  and  his 
son.  This  list  he  had  not  permitted 
them  to  see. 

Mrs.  Ashley,  however,  found  more 
real  pleasure  in  the  planning  than  either 
her  husband  or  her  son.  For  weeks  she 
had  had  a  dressmaker  at  the  house, 
cutting  and  sewing  and  fitting,  and  all 
the  neighbors  had  been  in  to  advise  and 
help,  and  talk  it  over,  until  Ashley  de- 
clared that  the  place  resembled  nothing 
so  much  as  the  good  old  church  sewing 
societies  of  his  youth.  But  he  encour- 
aged his  wife  in  it  all.  The  eighteen 
years  of  their  married  life  had  been  too 
busy  for  much  pleasure.  Her  time  had 
been  filled  with  household  duties,  his 
with  the  building  up  of  his  moderate 
business.  He  was  getting  on  his  feet 
now.  Nothing  remained  but  the  small 
mortgage  on  the  home  and  one  note  to 
the  local  bank  which  he  hoped  to  meet 
in  the  fall.  So  he  encouraged  his  wife 
in  her  planning,  and  actually  took  de- 
light in  her  little  feminine  extravagan- 
ces. 
120  "  That's 


ASHLEY 

"That's  right,  Jane,"  he  had  said; 
"just  get  anything  you  wish.  I  want 
you  to  look  your  best,  little  mother — 
equal  to  any  of  'em.  And  you'll  do  it, 
too.  Why,  Tad,  your  mother's  just  as 
good-looking  as  when  I  first  met  her 
twenty  years  ago  at  Johnson's  party. 
For  eighteen  years  we've  slaved  and 
never  had  a  vacation  —  not  so  much 
as  a  trip  back  to  the  old  home  in  Ver- 
mont. So  we're  going  now  in  the  best 
of  style.  We'll  spend  some  money,  and 
see  something,  and  make  up  for  lost 
time." 

So  they  had  come  to  Chicago  and 
were  staying  at  the  Great  Northern.  It 
was  the  morning  after  their  arrival,  and 
they  were  taking  breakfast. 

"  Why,  father,"  said  Tad,  suddenly, 
looking  up  from  the  morning  paper,  "it 
says  here  that  the  Louisiana  Land  and 
Improvement  Company  has  gone  under. 
That's  our  Mr.  Merrill's  southern  land 
scheme  we've  heard  so  much  about, 
isn't  it?" 

"It  can't  be.  Let  me  look  at  it." 
Ashley  took  the  paper,  but  it  trembled 
slightly  in  his  hand.  "  Yes,  that's  the 
company.  I  wonder  what  could  have 
caused  it.  Thought  Merrill  was  solid 
as  a  rock,  but  you  can't  tell  nowadays. 
121  That 


ASHLEY 

That  looks  rather  bad  for  our  — "  But 
Ashley  did  not  finish  his  sentence. 
From  his  inside  coat-pocket  he  took  out 
his  notebook,  selecting  the  slip  marked 
with  the  program  for  that  day.  He  did 
not  look  at  the  newspaper  again. 

The  evening  dailies  confirmed  the 
report  of  the  failure,  and  ascribed  it  to 
the  closing  of  a  large  Philadelphia  bank 
which  had  been  deeply  interested  in  the 
southern  company.  The  failure,  the 
article  went  on  to  say,  would  be  felt 
most  heavily  by  Iowa  and  Nebraska 
bankers,  who,  through  Merrill's  efforts, 
had  been  drawn  into  the  southern  en- 
terprise. If  Merrill's  bank  at  Sioux 
City  was  forced  to  the  wall,  it  would 
pull  down  ten  or  fifteen  smaller  country 
banks.  Ashley  felt  certain  that  his  home 
bank  would  be  one  of  these.  Merrill 
had  started  it  several  years  before  his 
removal  to  Sioux  City  and  his  great 
financial  success  there.  But  though 
Merrill  was  said  to  hold  no  stock  in  the 
smaller  bank,  his  former  connection 
would  have  its  bearing  on  the  future 
course  of  that  institution.  Ashley  un- 
derstood the  situation  perfectly,  and, 
more  than  that,  he  understood  how  vi- 
tally it  affected  him  and  how  much  it 
might  mean  to  him  and  his  family.  But 
122  through 


ASHLEY 

through  it  all  not  once  did  his  fears 
reach  his  face. 

"  We'll  go  and  see  Sol  Smith  Russell 
to-night,"  he  said,  cheerily.  "  It's  years 
since  we've  seen  a  good  play.  They 
say  he's  one  of  the  best  players  in  the 
city.  And  I've  got  the  best  seats  in  the 
house  —  right  down  in  front  by  the 
stage."  And  the  three  went,  and  laughed 
and  cried  over  the  homely  play,  which 
touched  their  hearts  to  the  very  depths. 

The  next  morning  was  Sunday,  and 
they  came  down  to  breakfast  rather 
late  for  them.  Tad  opened  the  paper. 

"  Here's  more  about  the  big  Louisi- 
ana failure,  father.  It's  pulled  in  Mr. 
Merrill — yes,  and  here's  a  whole  lot  of 
little  banks,  too.  I  wonder  if — " 

"  Just  let  me  glance  at  that  a  mo- 
ment." Ashley  took  the  newspaper. 
"  It's  too  bad  for  Merrill— probably  it'll 
eat  up  everything  he  owns.  I  feel  more 
sorry  for  his  family,  though.  They've 
lived  a  high  life  since  they  left  our  town 
and  it'll  go  hardest  with  them."  Then 
he  glanced  at  the  special  dispatch  from 
Sioux  City.  The  bank  of  his  home  town 
was  one  of  the  first  in  the  list  of  those 
which  were  affected.  Ashley  folded  the 
paper  slowly  and  placed  it  in  his  outer 
coat-pocket.  Then  he  turned  to  his 
123  wife, 


ASHLEY 

wife,  who  had  been  giving  her  order 
and  had  not  heard  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  two. 

"Where  do  we  go  to  church  this 
morning?  One  of  the  large  ones?  Just 
wait  until  I  find  it.  Oh,  yes,  we'll  go  to 
hear  Dr.  Gunsaulus,  and  in  the  after- 
noon out  to  Lincoln  Park." 

When  they  came  in  that  evening  a 
telegram  was  awaiting  Ashley.  He 
thrust  it  into  his  inside  coat-pocket  un- 
opened and  met  Mrs.  Ashley's  tired  but 
happy  face. 

"  Now  for  some  supper  and  then  to 
bed  early.  I'm  half-famished  and  dead 
tired.  To-morrow  we'll  start  in  to  do 
the  fair  systematically,  and  see  every- 
thing there  is  to  see  if  it  takes  us  a 
month." 

They  had  their  supper  and  then  Ash- 
ley escorted  his  wife  up  the  elevator 
and  to  her  room.  Tad  remained  in  the 
office  below. 

"  Now,  you  go  to  bed  right  away, 
little  mother,  and  rest  up  completely. 
Tad  and  I'll  sit  down  in  the  office  a  little 
while  and  then  turn  in." 

Coming  back,  Ashley  took  his  boy 
by  the  arm  and  drew  him  into  a  window 
of  one  of  the  little  side-rooms. 

"  Tad,  read  that,"  and  Ashley  handed 
124  his 


ASHLEY 

his  son  the  telegram  which  he  had  taken 
from  the  envelope  during  his  absence. 
It  was  several  moments  before  the  boy 
fully  understood.  The  father  sat  si- 
lently gazing  out  into  the  night. 

"  Tad,  I  owe  that  bank  a  good  deal 
of  money.  I'd  hoped  to  straighten  it  up 
this  year,  but  I  can't  meet  the  note  just 
now.  If  the  bank  won't  give  me  time, 
it  means  ruination.  I  don't  know  what 
they'll  do,  but  if  they  call  in  their  paper 
now,  I'll  lose  everything — home  and  all. 
That  mortgage  on  the  home  is  the  worst 
thing.  Why,  my  God,  it  would  kill 
mother  to  have  to  give  it  up  after  nearly 
twenty  years  there."  And  his  voice 
broke.  Then  in  a  moment  he  went  on 
quietly: 

"  She  must  not  know  now.  I  must 
leave  on  the  midnight  train,  and  you 
must  tell  her  it  was  important  business. 
Explain  it  away  somehow — I  leave  that 
to  you.  She's  tired  now  and  sleeping, 
and  it's  best  not  to  wake  her.  She'd 
only  worry.  You  must  look  after  her 
now,  my  boy." 

For  hours  father  and  son  sat  there 
in  the  little  room  and  talked — talked  of 
many  things  —  talked  for  the  first  time 
in  their  lives  as  man  to  man.  Then 
Ashley  went  up  to  his  room  and  ten- 
125  derly 


ASHLEY 

derly  kissed  his  sleeping  wife.  Coming 
down  again,  he  handed  over  the  little 
slips  and  a  roll  of  bills  to  Tad.  He 
grasped  the  boy  by  the  shoulder  and 
wrung  his  hand  quickly,  and  then  left 
him  with  a  husky  good-by. 

The  next  day  two  telegrams  came 
to  the  Great  Northern  from  a  little  Ne- 
braska town. 

Mrs.  Ashley's  read:  "Arrived  this 
morning.  Made  big  business  deal. 
Everything  all  right.  Detained  here. 
Love  to  you  both." 

Tad's  read:  "Bank  foreclosed  at  noon 
to-day.  Lost  everything,  but  saved 
home.  Keep  dark  to  mother.  Give  her 
one  good  time  till  money  runs  out." 


126 


HIS  LOVE  FOR  THE 
PEOPLE 


HIS  LOVE  FOR  THE 
PEOPLE 

I 


S  Thompson  of  Morris  flung 
his  long,  lean  arms  awkwardly 
about  and  in  his  high,  rasping 
voice  poured  out  his  bitter  at- 
tack upon  the  University  bill,  Lanthorn 
of  Warren  County,  author  of  the  meas- 
ure, arose  from  his  seat  and  walked 
across  the  room  to  the  reporter  of  the 
"Evening  Star."  He  half  rested  one 
elbow  against  the  top  of  the  desk  and 
with  the  thumb  and  first  finger  of  his 
left  hand  rolled  a  dead  cigar  between 
his  teeth.  From  this  point  he  could 
observe  the  house  full  in  the  face. 

The  reporter  pulled  the  bows  of  his 
glasses  from  behind  his  ears  and  began 
rubbing  the  lens  vigorously  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"The   old  boy's  telling  you  a  few 
things  about  your  institution,"  he  said, 
peering  at  Lanthorn  in  a  way  very  near- 
sighted men  have  of  doing.  "You  should 
129  have 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

have  the  President  down  here.  Thomp- 
son would  entertain  him,  at  least." 
"Yes,  Thompson  has  his  steam  up." 
Lanthorn  said  no  more.  He  stood 
quietly  leaning  against  the  desk,  one 
hand  thrust  deeply  into  his  trousers- 
pocket,  his  long  frock  coat  thrown  wide 
open.  He  noted  the  effect  his  oppo- 
nent was  making  upon  the  house.  The 
lobby  and  galleries  were  packed  with 
spectators,  silent,  eagerly  watching  the 
scene  before  them.  They  were  for  the 
most  part  men,  but  here  and  there  the 
bright  red  or  yellow  of  a  woman's  hat 
broke  the  wall  of  black  and  white.  On 
the  floor  a  strange  intensity  of  nervous- 
ness prevailed.  Men  were  constantly 
leaving  their  seats  and  moving  back 
and  forth  through  the  various  aisles,  or 
hurrying  into  the  cloakrooms  and  out 
again.  Some  few  were  constantly  jump- 
ing up  and  breaking  the  speaker's  flood 
of  fiery  language  by  keen,  sarcastic 
questions.  Others  were  supporting  him 
bravely,  applauding  vigorously  at  every 
sentiment  of  unusual  vehemence.  All 
was  subdued,  threatening,  permeated 
with  that  strange,  paralyzing  hush  that 
men  experience  just  before  a  great  bat- 
tle or  at  the  breaking  of  a  great  storm 
on  the  prairie. 
130  There 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

There  were  five  or  six  men  in  the 
body  who  throughout  the  speaker's 
attack  remained  motionless,  listening 
earnestly,  but  with  an  air  of  seeking 
knowledge  rather  than  of  taking  sides 
in  a  partisan  fight.  These  men  Lan- 
thorn  watched  narrowly.  Every  play 
of  their  features  he  noted  and  studied 
as  carefully  and  searchingly  as  a  gam- 
bler strives  to  read  the  face-masks  of 
fellow-players,  for  these  men  constituted 
the  unknown  quantity  in  a  problem  that 
had  filled  Lanthorn's  mind  for  days  — 
the  outcome  of  his  University  measure. 

These  five  or  six  members  were  from 
the  frontier  portions  of  the  state,  "  new 
timber  "in  the  legislature,  radical  and 
more  or  less  inflammable  representa- 
tives of  their  party.  They  had  been 
pulled  back  and  forth  by  either  faction 
and  put  to  the  test  by  every  influence 
known  to  old  and  skillful  leaders,  but 
they  still  had  remained  neutral,  had 
taken  no  stand.  On  their  action  rested 
the  fate  of  the  measure,  and  no  two  men 
understood  so  fully,  so  thoroughly  the 
situation  as  Thompson  of  Morris  and 
Lanthorn  of  Warren. 

Thompson  had  sat  in  the  House  the 

session  before,  Lanthorn  was  entering 

his  third  term.  In  this  legislature,  which 

131  had 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

had  convened  but  a  few  weeks,  the  two 
old  parties  were  so  evenly  matched  that 
the  balance  of  power  rested  in  the 
hands  of  the  five  or  six  men  represent- 
ing the  new  political  faith.  To  the  man 
who  could  bring  those  six  into  line  with 
his  own  party  and  weld  the  whole  into 
a  solid,  compact,  powerful  majority, 
would  fall  the  leadership  of  the  House, 
and  that  leadership  carried  with  it  a 
future. 

"I  brand  this  bill,  then,  Mr.  Speaker," 
continued  Thompson,  whirling  about 
and  suddenly  addressing  the  chair,  "  I 
brand  this  bill  as  a  disgraceful  plot  on 
the  part  of  the  University  authorities. 
In  asking  this  increased  levy  these  men, 
servants  and  representatives  of  a  great 
commonwealth,  are  seeking  to  load  an- 
other burden  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
people.  I,  for  one,  Mr.  Speaker,  am 
here  to  guard  the  interests  of  these 
very  people  —  to  guard  those  interests 
which  the  University  authorities  so 
easily  forget — aye,  so  easily  and  readily 
turn  to  personal  ends.  I  say  this  boldly, 
for  to  my  mind  there  is  no  other  motive 
for  the  vast  accumulation  of  resource 
which  this  bill,  if  it  becomes  a  law,  will 
afford.  I  do  not  wish  to  stigmatize  the 
Honorable  Regents  with  this  robbery 
132  of 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

of  state's  money.  But  I  do  say,  with  all 
the  strength  and  with  all  the  power 
which  God  Almighty  has  given  me,  that 
they  have  forgotten  their  trust,  that 
they  are  led  willy-nilly  by  one  man,  that 
they  are  blinded  by  false  flattery  and 
hypocritical  pretensions  of  friendship 
from  the  lips  of  one  who,  a  high-toned, 
fine-feathered  aristocrat,  coming  out 
from  the  effete  east  with  the  idea  that 
he  is  a  shining  light  in  the  wilderness, 
pulls  them  about  by  their  noses  like 
dumb  animals  and  leads  them  into  pro- 
viding soft  berths  and  good  salaries  for 
a  favored  few  who  stand  in  with  and 
bow  down  to  the  governing  head  as  to 
an  oriental  potentate.  My  friends,  you 
know  the  man.  How  great  and  mighty 
has  he  grown  since  lifted  from  black 
obscurity  to  commanding  position!  He 
is  the  head,  the  great  and  august  head! 
His  very  acts  are  sacred,  not  to  be  be- 
holden of  common  men,  not  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  light  of  day.  Bah!  I  say 
the  University  is  but  a  stepping-stone 
to  his  ambitious  designs.  The  people 
are  the  helpless  puppets  in  his  hands, 
the  fools  who  pay  the  fiddler! 

"  I  ask  you,  gentlemen,  all  of  you, 

whether  of  one  party  or  another,  and 

especially  I  ask  the  gentlemen  to  whom 

133  this 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

this  legislature  and  these  state  institu- 
tions are  new  —  I  ask  you,  is  this  the 
man  to  stand  at  the  head  of  a  great  and 
gloriously  democratic  institution  like 
our  own?  What  is  there  democratic 
about  him?  Does  he  ever  mingle  with 
the  working -classes?  Has  he  ever 
grasped  the  soil-stained  but  honest 
hand  of  a  farmer  in  this  state?  Does 
he  travel  over  the  state  as  his  prede- 
cessor was  wont  to  do,  seeking  the 
people  of  all  classes  —  farmers,  mer- 
chants, mechanics — learning  their  ways, 
binding  them  into  close  and  sympathetic 
touch  with  the  crown  of  our  educational 
system?  No!  Instead,  he  affects  the 
monkish  seclusion  of  the  dark  ages, 
shuts  himself  in  his  office  wrapped  in 
aristocratic  dignity,  contriving  schemes 
and  hatching  plots,  that  his  ambitious 
designs  may  be  gratified.  Yes,  gentle- 
men, I  have  long  waited  for  this  oppor- 
tunity; the  time  is  ripe,  the  moment 
come,  and  this  man  I  hold  up  as  — " 

"  Mr.  Speaker,  point  of  order,"  sud- 
denly interrupted  a  fiery  little  Irishman 
with  a  red  fat  face  and  bristling  side- 
whiskers.  "  I  protest  against  this  tor- 
rent of  abuse  and  calumny,  which  is 
nothing  but  the  vilest  slander  and  a 
pack  of  lies.  A  man  who  spits  forth 
134  such 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

such — such  rot  should  be  branded  with 
the  word  '  liar '  in  letters  of  fire." 

The  words  rang  out  sharp  and  clear. 
The  Speaker  of  the  House  stood  lean- 
ing over  his  long,  dark  desk,  scarcely 
comprehending.  Members,  clerks,  re- 
porters, spectators  were  sitting  and 
standing  perfectly  still  in  their  places. 
There  was  perfect  silence  everywhere, 
strange  and  oppressive. 

"You  take  that  back!" 

Washington  of  Morris  had  strode 
across  the  floor  in  an  instant,  and  tow- 
ered high  above  the  Irishman,  his  face 
livid,  perspiration  standing  from  his 
forehead. 

Suddenly  the  Speaker  pounded  his 
gavel  violently  upon  the  desk.  There 
was  confusion  everywhere.  Men  of  all 
parties  and  all  beliefs  suddenly  formed 
about  the  two,  pulling  and  pushing, 
swearing  and  yelling  madly,  a  whirl- 
pool of  passion.  Ladies  in  the  galleries 
had  arisen  with  the  others  and  stood 
motionless,  fascinated.  A  babel  of 
clamor  rose  from  the  struggling,  sway- 
ing mass.  The  reporters  at  their  desks, 
never  flurried,  wrote  rapidly. 

The  clock  above  the  Speaker's  chair 
struck  twelve,  but  only  Lanthorn,  lean- 
ing easily  against  the  "  Evening  Star  " 
135  desk, 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

desk,  heard  it.  Taking  the  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  he  threw  it  into  a  waste- 
paper  basket.  Then  he  walked  rapidly 
down  the  aisle  and  pushed  his  way  into 
the  midst  of  the  crowd. 

"Stand  back — get  back  there,  Den- 
nis!" he  commanded,  crowding  the  little 
Irishman  to  one  side  and  coming  face 
to  face  with  Thompson. 

"Now,  Thompson,  sit  down!"  He 
grasped  his  opponent  by  the  arm  and 
forced  him  into  a  chair.  "  Now,  all  of 
you  let  up  on  this  infernal  din."  His 
voice  was  big  and  full  and  strong,  and 
the  confusion  surged  out  to  the  edges 
of  the  crowd  and  died  away.  Then 
turning  to  the  chair  he  said,  "  Mr. 
Speaker,  I  move  that  the  Committee  of 
the  Whole  do  now  arise  and  report 
progress  and  the  University  bill  be 
made  the  first  item  of  business  for  Mon- 
day morning." 

Two  representatives  walked  slowly 
down  Capitol  Hill  toward  their  hotel. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  the  University  to- 
morrow morning,"  said  one  of  them.  "  I 
want  to  look  over  the  place  and  see  for 
myself  what  kind  of  a  man  the  President 
really  is.  Perhaps  Thompson  is  right, 
after  all." 
136  "I'll 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

"  I'll  go  with  you,  and  we'll  get  some 
of  the  other  boys — Steinway  and  Little. 
They  are  as  much  at  sea  as  we  are." 

"  Well,  I'll  'phone  him  we're  coming. 
It'll  be  a  good  way  to  put  in  part  of  the 
time.  Saturday's  always  long  to  me." 


137 


II 


[HERE,  Lewis,  that's  the  last 
letter.  We've  cleared  the 
basket  rather  quickly  this 
morning,  but  in  this  legisla- 
tive campaign  there's  no  telling  when 
we'll  get  at  it  again.  You  and  William 
must  do  your  best  to  thin  put  the  pile. 
I  wish  we  were  all  out  of  this  thing,  but 
the  real  trouble  is  just  beginning. 
There  is  so  much  political  complication 
up  there,  so  many  complications  and  so 
much  personal  feeling  and  so  many 
stories  about  us  down  here,  that  it  makes 
me  sick.  The  University  bill  seems  to 
be  a  football  tossed  about  from  party 
to  party.  But  we  will  not  give  up  until 
it  is  all  over.  Send  the  letter  to  Regent 
Stanton  on  the  noon  train.  I  want  him 
at  the  Capitol  the  rest  of  the  week." 

The  stenographer  mechanically 
raised  one  shoulder  quickly  and  gath- 
ered the  answered  letters  into  a  pile. 
Closing  his  notebook,  he  arose  and 
stood  waiting,  his  loose  shoulders 
slightly  stooped. 
138  "  Have 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

"Have  William  call  up  the  boiler- 
house  and  tell  them  to  turn  on  more 
steam.  The  chill  and  the  gloom  of  the 
day  makes  this  room  cold,  dark,  and 
dismal  as  a  vault." 

The  stenographer  went  out  of  the 
room  noiselessly.  The  President  of 
the  University  sat  and  gazed  at  the 
calendar-pad  on  the  long  office  table 
before  him.  In  the  gray  dull  light  of 
the  winter  morning  he  appeared  pale 
and  haggard  and  old.  He  was  scarcely 
over  middle-age,  but  the  strain  was 
telling  upon  him.  The  flesh  was  puffed 
slightly  under  his  eyes,  and  long  lines 
had  grown  into  his  forehead.  He  sat 
half-turned  from  the  table,  one  arm 
hanging  loosely  over  the  side  of  the 
chair.  With  the  fingers  of  the  other  he 
was  drumming  monotonously  upon  the 
blue  blotter  before  him. 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  into 
an  empty  corner  of  the  room,  almost 
dark  in  the  day's  gloom. 

"If  the  bill  goes  through,"  he  had 
once  said  to  the  steward,  "we  must 
have  a  grate  in  that  corner.  A  cheery, 
crackling  fire  leaping  up  before  visitors 
who  come  in  will  put  them  at  their  ease 
and  make  them  feel  more  at  home. 
Perhaps  it  will  dispel  that  icy,  frigid  air 
139  that 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

that  people  must  necessarily  feel  in  the 
presence  of  one  who  is  such  an  '  aristo- 
crat,' and  who  '  is  as  cold  and  reserved 
as  a  medieval  monk.'  That  is  the  way 
I  am  held  up  to  the  public;  and  per- 
haps a  fireplace  would  help  me  out  a 
little." 

"Is  that  all  the  change  you've  planned 
for  your  office  if  we're  successful?"  the 
steward  had  asked,  wonderingly. 

"Yes,  that's  all.  The  office  could 
stand  some  wall-paper,  I  think,  and 
here  and  there  a  bit  of  furniture,  but 
there  are  too  many  other  crying  needs 
for  all  the  money  we  shall  have  this 
biennium.  The  chapel  must  be  enlarged 
and  Science  Hall  completely  overhauled, 
and  I  want  to  see  a  stone  walk  laid  to 
the  main  entrance  this  summer.  The 
salaries  and  wages  must  be  increased 
also  to  the  full  limit.  We  cannot  ask 
our  men  to  remain  here  any  longer  on 
under-pay  and  the  long  hours  they  have 
been  giving  generously  for  years.  No, 
I  will  move  along  here  for  two  more 
years  just  about  as  things  are.  But 
really,  don't  you  think  an  open  grate 
over  there  would  cheer  things  up  won- 
derfully?" 

"  Certainly,"  the  steward  had  re- 
plied; "I  think  we'll  have  to  put  that  in 
140  somehow 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

somehow  or  other,  whether  the  bill 
goes  through  or  not." 

From  this  dusky  corner  there  now 
peered  down  at  the  President  the  mar- 
ble features  of  his  predecessor,  the  great 
man  who  years  before  had  come  to  the 
University  in  its  infancy  and  had 
brought  it  to  a  strong,  commanding 
majority.  This  man  had  given  his  life 
for  his  work,  and  had  handed  on  to  the 
younger  executive  his  great  burden  of 
crushing  responsibilities.  And  so  the 
present  head  had  come  out  of  the  East, 
new,  unknown,  untried,  differing  from 
the  old  in  many  things,  and  had  plunged 
into  the  throes  of  a  legislative  struggle. 
His  work  was  to  build  up  "  The  New 
University  " — a  University  so  broad  and 
deep  in  spirit  and  purpose  that  none 
could  see,  even  in  vision,  its  completest 
consummation. 

"You,  sir,"  said  the  President,  ex- 
tending his  open  hand  toward  the  bust 
above  him — "you,  sir,  could  have  done 
it.  Possessed  of  that  rich  experience 
of  years,  that  sober  judgment,  that  true 
and  perfect  discernment,  you  could  have 
met  all  opposition  magnanimously  and 
stoutly  and  calmly  swept  it  before  you. 
You,  my  master,  did  battle  in  every 
form,  you  were  put  to  the  limit  of  human 
141  patience 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

patience  and  endurance,  you  lived 
through  every  emotion  of  doubt  and 
fear  and  despair,  and  you  came  off  vic- 
torious by  the  magnificent  faith  and 
courage  that  inspired  you.  You  were 
a  giant  among  men,  while  I — " 

The  telephone  bell  ringing  inter- 
rupted his  apostrophe.  He  turned  and 
drew  the  receiver  to  him. 

"Yes  —  oh,  good  morning,  Doctor; 
how  are  you?  What's  that?  Died  last 
night — yes,  yes — the  mother — yes,  I'll 
remember — good-by!" 

The  President  pressed  a  button  be- 
neath his  table.  A  faint  muffled  buzz- 
ing sound  came  from  the  outer  office, 
and  in  a  few  moments  his  secretary 
entered. 

"  William,  Dr.  Gordon  has  just  called 
me  over  the  telephone.  That  young 
German  boy,  Moellen,  died  last  night. 
It  must  have  been  soon  after  I  left  him 
and  sent  the  nurse.  The  body  is  at 
Corey's,  the  undertaker's,  and  it's  to  be 
taken  to  the  depot  in  half  an  hour  and 
shipped  home." 

The  President  ceased  abruptly,  rub- 
bing the  first  and  second  fingers  of  his 
left  hand  across  each  other  nervously 
and  then  stroking  back  the  hair  from 
his  forehead. 
142  "  William, 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

"  William,  I  want  you  to  go  down  to 
Corey's  place  and  look  after  the  mother. 
She's  old,  and  the  blow  has  almost 
crazed  her.  She  was  hysterical  last 
night  and  would  scarcely  let  me  leave 
her.  I  ought  to  go.  I  wish  I  could,  but 
a  delegation  of  legislators  is  coming 
here  at  half-past  ten  to  look  over  the 
University.  I  can't  miss  seeing  them, 
can  I?  It's  not  a  matter  of  myself,  but 
the  life  of  the  University.  You  see  how 
it  is,  don't  you?  It  is  altogether  out  of 
the  question;  don't  you  think  so?  You 
must  arrange  with  some  one  in  the 
office  before  you  go  to  show  these  men 
in  the  moment  they  arrive.  You  know 
what  they  think  of  me.  Well,  we  must 
meet  them  cordially.  You  make  them 
as  much  at  home  as  you  can  in  such  a 
dreary  place  on  such  a  dismal  day.  Let 
them  see  just  how  we  do  things  here. 
I  wish  it  were  brighter,"  and  he  glanced 
at  the  corner  as  if  he  expected  the 
pleasant  crackling  flames  of  a  great  fire 
to  meet  his  eye. 

The  young  man  waited  quietly. 

"  Yes,  you  must  go.  Look  after  a 
carriage,  get  the  tickets,  and  comfort 
her  all  you  can.  You  must  explain  how 
I  am  held  here  —  no,  that  wouldn't  do. 
She  wouldn't  understand.  Tell  her  — 
143  no, 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

no,  just  leave  orders  not  to  keep  the  rep- 
resentatives waiting.  You  will  have  to 
go  soon." 

The  young  man  went  out.  The 
President  sat  motionless  gazing  at  the 
bust  above  him.  Gradually  a  tender- 
ness came  into  his  eyes  and  he  fell  to 
rubbing  his  two  fingers  together  again. 
Outside  the  wind  whistled  shrilly  about 
the  corners  and  swirled  the  snow 
sharply  against  the  panes.  A  distant 
shout  sounded  from  the  campus  and  in 
some  upper  hall  of  the  building  a  bell 
rang  faintly.  Heavy  feet  shuffled  along 
the  hallway  stamping  off  the  snow. 
The  cheap  little  clock  above  the  book- 
case ticked  louder  and  louder. 

The  President  arose  suddenly,  and 
going  to  the  closet  in  the  corner  pulled 
himself  into  his  heavy  brown  ulster,  his 
overshoes,  and  his  gloves.  Taking  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  he  walked  rapidly  into 
the  outer  office.  The  young  man  was 
just  drawing  down  the  cover  of  his 
desk. 

"William,  I've  changed  my  mind. 
I'm  going  to  the  depot  with  the  mother 
myself.  The  members  of  the  House 
will  be  here  in  fifteen  minutes,  and  I'll 
try  and  get  back  in  half  an  hour.  Hold 
144  them 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

them  until  I  return  if  you  can.  If  you 
can't,  why  — " 

"  Shall  I  call  a  carriage?  There  will 
be  time." 

"No;  I  want  to  get  put  into  the 
storm  —  I  feel  like  facing  it." 


Ill 

HE  long,  narrow,  ill-ventilated 
waiting-room  of  the  station  was 
crowded.  Three  Russian  wo- 
men with  the  kerchief  headgear 
and  somber  black  garments  of  the  Old 
Country  peasants  were  settled  in  one 
corner,  barracked  by  great  baskets  and 
bundles  and  dirty  children  pulling  stol- 
idly at  each  other's  stringy  hair.  About 
a  radiator  in  the  center  of  the  room 
were  grouped  a  company  of  traveling 
players.  The  rakish-dressed  leading- 
lady,  wearing  two  heavy  chatelaines 
and  a  large  bunch  of  artificial  violets, 
had  her  head  drawn  close  to  a  long- 
haired, Roman-beaked  actor  in  a  tall 
hat  long  unironed. 

"Nice-looking  old  fellow — that  over 
there,"  she  said,  rattling  away  after  the 
manner  of  their  kind,  and  nodding  across 
the  room;  "the  one  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand.  Looks  like  he  might  be  a  well- 
to-do  banker." 

"Banker's  good— more  like  a  preach- 
er chap — knowing  old  boy,  too — but, 
146  Lord, 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

Lord,  that  shriveled-up  blackbird  with 
him — not  of  his  congregation,  my  Flor- 
entina,  never — too  pungent  an  odor  of 
Mow  Dutch'  there  —  smearcase  and 
kraut,  washtubs  and  soft  soap.  Ugh, 
I  smell  it  now.  I  would  we  seek  a 
change  of  atmosphere." 

The  man  with  his  hat  in  his  hand 
stood  talking  earnestly  to  the  woman 
in  faded  black,  who  sat  disconsolately 
clasping  her  coarse  hard  hands  tightly 
in  her  lap.  From  beneath  her  rusty 
bonnet  her  face  looked  out  thin  and 
drawn  with  grief.  Her  lips  were  tight 
closed  and  with  dull,  dry  eyes  she  gazed 
vacantly  toward  the  blank  wall. 

"  I  have  sent  a  telegram  to  your  hus- 
band," the  man  was  saying,  "and  he  will 
be  there  to  meet  you.  You  must  not 
worry  at  all,  for  I  will  give  the  conductor 
the  tickets  and  he  will  look  after  every- 
thing. I  wish  I  were  going  with  you,  to 
help  and  comfort  you,  but  I  know  you 
will  be  brave  —  as  brave  as  you  were 
last  night.  Your  husband  will  need  you 
all  the  more  now.  You  will  comfort 
him — make  it  easier  for  him.  You  two 
will  be  dearer  to  each  other  now." 

The  door  opened  and  a  cold  blast  of 

wind  ran  through  the  room,  sending  a 

shiver  over  those  within.    The  hoarse 

147  whistle 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

whistle  of  an  approaching  train  sounded 
on  the  frosty  air.  The  waiting  travel- 
ers began  to  gather  their  parcels,  to 
button  their  coats,  and  crowd  toward 
the  door.  The  woman  in  black  sat 
helplessly  staring  at  the  wall,  motion- 
less, tearless.  "  Come,"  said  the  man, 
simply.  He  took  her  little  worn  leather 
valise  in  one  hand  and  with  the  other 
gently  helped  her  to  arise. 

She  stared  at  him  vacantly,  and  let 
him  lead  her  through  the  crowded  room 
and  out  upon  the  station  platform.  The 
north  wind  beat  across  the  open  space 
and  whipped  the  frozen  snow  sharply 
into  their  faces.  The  man  quickly 
changed  so  as  to  shield  her  fully  with 
his  body  and  heavy  coat.  She  let  him 
draw  her  close  and  slowly  lead  her  into 
the  train.  As  they  walked  down  the 
aisle  a  little  child  sucking  a  piece  of 
candy  held  out  its  sticky  hand,  touched 
his  coat,  and  smiled  up  at  them.  The 
man  smiled  back,  and  the  woman's  eyes 
brightened  momentarily,  then  became 
apathetic  again. 

He  found  a  seat  for  her  near  the 
center  of  the  car,  placed  the  little  valise 
at  her  feet,  and  calling  the  porter  had 
him  close  the  ventilator  above  and  then 
bring  a  pillow.  This  he  arranged  for 
148  her 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

her  himself,  patting  it  down  and  smooth- 
ing it  back,  and  then  forced  her  to  take 
off  her  bonnet  and  lean  back  upon  the 
cushion. 

"  You  must  sleep  during  the  ride," 
he  said.  She  closed  her  eyes  wearily. 
"  You  must  not  worry,  but  try  to  rest,  or 
you  will  be  sick  yourself.  I  must  leave 
you  now,  but  when  you  see  your  hus- 
band and  everything  is  over,  tell  him 
that  Will  was  a  good  boy  and  was 
growing  into  a  noble  Christian  man. 
Both  of  you  will  always  be  proud  and 
glad  to  have  had  such  a  son." 

There  was  the  warning  sound  of  es- 
caping steam  and  a  bell  ringing  some- 
where ahead.  The  train  began  to  move 
slowly,  and  then  the  woman  suddenly 
sat  up  erect  and  clutched  his  hand  con- 
vulsively. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  my  boy!"  and 
tears,  the  first  tears  since  the  death, 
streamed  down  her  face  and  spotted 
her  faded  dress. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  said,  hoarsely, 
and  freeing  himself  walked  rapidly 
toward  the  door.  A  large,  heavy  man 
standing  in  the  aisle,  who  had  been 
watching  the  two,  made  as  if  to  detain 
him.  But  the  hurrying  man  did  not  see, 
and  passing  out  swung  loose  from  the 
149  train 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

train  and  faced  the  storm  back  to  the 
University. 

As  the  President  entered  the  outer 
office,  his  coat  and  hair  and  hat  pow- 
dered with  clinging  snow,  his  ears  and 
cheeks  fiery  red  with  the  cold,  the 
committee  had  just  come  out  from  the 
inner  room,  followed  by  the  President's 
secretary,  vainly  attempting  to  stay 
them. 

"He  would  have  been  back  before 
this,  dead  boy  or  no  dead  boy.  The 
train  left  half  an  hour  ago.  The  story 
sounds  like  bosh — a  dodge  to  avoid  us. 
He  don't  want  to  see  us." 

The  speaker  was  a  short  man,  with 
thick,  curly  hair,  a  bulldog  mouth  and 
chin  and  small  bright  eyes.  He  slapped 
his  leg  with  his  hat  repeatedly  while 
talking.  His  companions  were  button- 
ing their  overcoats  and  rolling  up  their 
trousers. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  said 
the  President,  throwing  back  his  ulster 
collar  and  shaking  the  snow  about  him. 
"  Come  in  a  moment  and  I  will  explain." 

"Oh,  some  other  time  for  that,"  said 

the  little  man,  coldly.    "  We're  sorry,  of 

course,  but  we  had  another  important 

engagement  at  eleven.    Come  on." 

I5o  "But 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

"  But  I  think  you  will  hear  me,"  said 
the  President,  slowly. 

The  last  of  the  six  had  passed  out 
of  the  office  and  were  walking  heavily 
down  the  hall.  The  President  entered 
the  inner  room  without  a  word  and 
closed  the  door  quietly. 


IV 

|HE  storm  of  Saturday  had  so 
delayed  the  movement  of  the 
little  legislative  world  that  it 
was  two  o'clock  on  Monday  af- 
ternoon before  there  was  a  quorum  in 
the  lower  house  and  business  began. 
The  gray  clouds  that  still  hung  pall- 
like  over  the  earth  had  so  darkened  the 
chamber  that  all  the  gas-jets  were 
lighted  and  cast  sickly  yellow  shadows 
across  the  walls.  Above  the  Speaker's 
chair  the  American  flag  flapped  gently 
in  the  wind  which  whistled  low  through 
a  crevice  of  the  window. 

The  body  at  once  went  into  the  com- 
mittee of  the  whole  and  the  University 
bill  came  up  again  as  the  special  order. 

Inside  the  Speaker's  private  office  a 
little  group  of  men  were  gathered  about 
a  green  cloth-covered  table,  silent,  wait- 
ing. A  tall,  awkward  man  with  a  boy- 
ish face  stiffly  clad  in  a  tight  suit  leaned 
far  over  the  table  checking  the  roll  of 
the  house. 

"With  four  of  them  we  can  just  make 
152  it," 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

it,"  he  said,  looking  up  eagerly;  "Lar- 
kins,  Walten  and  Steinway  and  Lollard. 
They  seemed  to  be  half-persuaded  last 
week." 

"  Have  you  or  Lanthorn  talked  with 
any  of  them  since  Friday — Larkins  or 
Lollard  especially?  The  other  two  fol- 
low them."  It  was  Stanton  who  spoke, 
the  regent  who  had  been  summoned  so 
hurriedly  by  the  President  the  Saturday 
before.  As  he  talked  he  drew  faces  on 
his  thumb-nail  with  a  fountain-pen, 
drawing  one,  rubbing  it  clean  on  a  blot- 
ter, picturing  another. 

"No,  I  couldn't  find  them,"  replied 
the  young  man,  the  resident  regent; 
"  and  Lanthorn  went  down  home  over 
Sunday.  He  only  returned  this  noon 
and  could  not  have  seen  them.  I'm 
sure  of  that." 

"Gentlemen,  I  think  we  can  count 
them  out."  It  was  the  President  who 
spoke,  slowly  and  distinctly.  "  They  all 
came  up  to  the  University  Saturday.  I 
was  called  away  suddenly  and  urgently 
and  when  I  returned  they  were  just 
leaving.  They  would  not  let  me  explain. 
You  know  the  things  that  have  been 
said — the  stories  that  have  gone  around. 
In  view  of  all  that  and  Thompson's 
speech  and  their  reception  at  the  Uni- 
153  versity 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

versity  we  might  just  as  well  cross  them 
off  the  list." 

All  were  silent,  gazing  intently  at  the 
long,  narrow  strip  of  paper  containing 
the  columns  of  names.  The  steam 
hissed  low  from  the  radiator's  escape- 
valve.  A  few  flakes  of  frozen  snow  beat 
against  the  pane.  A  sound  of  cheering 
came  from  the  outer  chamber. 

"Let  us  call  Lanthorn  in,"  suggested 
the  President,  "  and  have  his  opinion  of 
the  situation." 

The  man  with  the  boyish  face  arose 
and  went  out.  He  was  gone  fifteen 
minutes,  while  the  others  waited  pa- 
tiently, silently. 

"  Lanthorn  can't  come  now,"  he  re- 
ported on  returning.  "  He's  answering 
Lollard,  who  just  finished.  Attacked 
you  much  as  Thompson  did  Friday, 
pitching  into  you  principally  for  not  be- 
ing there  Saturday.  He  called  you  a 
cloister-seeking  recluse  and  pictured 
you  as  a  hermit,  loving  solitude,  and 
turning  your  face  in  disgust  and  loath- 
ing from  the  common  world  and  beating 
back  the  multitude  with  your  out- 
stretched palm.  He  predicted  your  fall 
— and  a  lot  of  other  rot." 

"And  Lanthorn  is  answering  him?" 
asked  Stanton. 
154  "Yes, 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

"Yes,  he  was  when  I  came  in.  Judge 
Tarball  stopped  me  a  moment  at  the 
door  to  tell  me  to  cheer  up.  He  said  in 
his  breezy  way  that  Lanthorn  always 
won — was  a  regular  thoroughbred,  you 
know,  my  boy.  But  come,  let's  go  out 
and  hear  him." 

The  three  arose  and  walked  through 
the  narrow  passage  into  the  legislative 
chamber  and  stood  near  the  end  of  the 
lobby.  Lanthorn  was  just  finishing,  and 
it  was  plain  to  see  that  he  had  held  his 
hearers.  The  Speaker  leaned  forward 
out  of  his  great  leather  chair,  the  flag 
drooping  in  full  folds  about  him.  Some 
of  the  members  still  held  newspapers 
in  their  hands,  but  were  not  reading 
them.  The  pages  had  ceased  to  quar- 
rel among  themselves  near  the  lobby. 
Silence  had  fallen  upon  the  galleries. 

"  Mr.  Speaker  and  gentlemen  of  this 
body:  I  have  told  you  the  story  simply 
and  truly,  for  I  happened  to  be  on  the 
train  and  to  see  it  all.  A  man  who  has 
the  heart  and  the  soul  to  do  a  thing  like 
that  little  deed  of  kindness  for  a  poor 
bereaved  mother,  friendless  and  alone 
in  the  city,  is  not  the  man  my  friend,  the 
gentleman  from  Washington,  or  my 
friend,  the  gentleman  from  Frontier 
County,  has  represented.  He  is  the 

155  man 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

man  we  want  in  this  state  of  ours,  the 
man  we  want  at  the  head  of  its  great 
educational  system,  the  man  to  whom 
we  can  safely  and  willingly  send  our 
boys  and  girls  in  perfect  trust  and  con- 
fidence." 

The  silence  continued  as  Lanthorn 
concluded  and  took  his  seat.  It  was  a 
heavy  stillness  —  the  hush  of  strained 
anxiety.  A  chair  creaked  once  grind- 
ingly  and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  sounded 
distinctly  across  the  room. 

*'  Question,"  the  fiery  little  Irishman 
called  suddenly  and  broke  the  quiet. 
Then  the  usual  confusion  arose  again 
as  members  leaned  across  to  talk  with 
one  another,  rumpled  papers  or  turned 
noisily  in  their  swinging  chairs.  The 
vote  was  taken. 

"The  chair  is  in  doubt,"  said  the 
Speaker.  "  The  house  will  stand  and 
be  counted." 

Silence  settled  down  again  as  the 
clerk  counted  those  standing  in  the 
affirmative.  The  regent  with  the  boy- 
ish face  had  climbed  to  a  chair  and  was 
also  counting  them.  Stanton's  gaze 
wandered  nervously  over  the  house. 
The  President  stood  a  little  behind  the 
others,  his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  closed. 
The  steward  of  the  University,  stand- 
156  ing 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

ing  in  the  lobby,  had  seen  them  enter, 
and  coming  across  now  stood  behind 
the  President. 

"  There's  Larkins  up,  and,  by  Jove, 
there's  Steinway,"  said  Stanton,  "  but  I 
don't  see  Lollard." 

"  He's  getting  up  now,"  said  the  re- 
gent on  the  chair,  excitedly.  "That 
fixes  it  —  that  does  it." 

"  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  Lollard,  slowly, 
"I  want  to  explain  my  vote.  I  was 
pretty  hot  under  the  collar  Saturday, 
and  I  hadn't  got  over  it  this  morning 
when  I  made  that  speech.  I  didn't  un- 
derstand and  I  want  to  do  the  fair  and 
square  thing.  I  take  back  what  I  said 
this  morning  and  stand  with  the  ayes." 

A  deafening  applause  rang  out 
through  the  hall  from  the  friends  of  the 
measure,  and  a  second  one  when  the 
vote  was  finally  announced.  Lanthorn 
had  arisen  and  walked  to  the  desk  of 
the  "Evening  Star,"  where  he  stood 
calmly  rolling  an  unlighted  cigar  be- 
tween his  lips.  Members  began  to  press 
about  him.  From  the  opposite  wall  the 
President,  the  two  regents  and  the 
steward  fixed  their  eyes  upon  him,  at- 
tempting to  draw  his  gaze. 

"  I  told  you  he  was  a  winner,"  said 

Judge  Tarbell,  approaching  the  group 

157  and 


LOVE  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

and  endeavoring  to  shake  the  hands  of 
all  of  them  at  once.  "I  told  you.  He 
comes  from  Kentucky.  Bridle  and  bit 
can't  hold  him  when  the  blood's  in  his 
eye  and  the  bit  in  his  teeth." 

"  We'll  have  the  fireplace  now,"  sug- 
gested the  steward,  thoughtfully. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  President, 
smiling  kindly;  "and  then  I  will  invite 
them  all  up  again." 

"  We  must  go  and  shake  hands  with 
him,"  said  the  President;  "  that  is,  if  we 
can  get  through  the  crowd." 


158 


"CHERRYBEAK" 
STEWART, 
BARNACLE 


"CHERRYBEAK"  STEW- 
ART, BARNACLE 


|OVALL  and  I,  dead  tired  and 
dusty  from  the  Midway,  sat  be- 
side the  lagoon  with  our  feet 
stretched  against  the  iron  rail- 
ing before  us  and  listened  to  the  Mexi- 
can band  playing  beneath  the  lights  of 
the  Government  building.  A  man  came 
down  the  steep  bridge-approach,  and  as 
he  stopped  for  a  moment  under  the 
electric  light  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
threw  back  his  head  to  catch  the  breeze 
from  the  water.  His  clothes  were  brown 
and  of  average  gentility.  One  noticed 
that  about  him,  and  then  the  man's  nose 
attracted  all  attention,  for  it  was  long 
and  thin  and,  even  in  the  white  electric 
light,  brightly  red. 

"Why,  there's  'Cherrybeak'  Stew- 
art!" exclaimed  Lovall.  "Hey,  you  there, 
you  'Cherrybeak'  —  well,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you!  Where  have  you  been  all  these 
years  ?  Everybody  down  home  thought 
you  were  dead." 
161  "Yes," 


u 


CHERRYBEAK 


"Yes,"  replied  the  man;  "I  left  the 
town  a  good  many  years  ago,  and  I've 
wandered  round  a  good  deal  since  Ed 
died.  I'm  working  now,  though,  down 
in  the  packing-houses — and  I  ain't 
missed  a  working-day  in  three  years. 
Kind  o'  surprise  Ed  if  he  was  living, 
would  n't  it;  but  I  owe  it  all  to  him. 
Poor  old  Ed.  Good  enough  to  be  a 
preacher  of  the  Gospel,  Ed  was,  even  if 
he  could  beat  us  all  a  swearing  when  he 
had  to.  I  ain't  been  really  happy  since 
he  died.  I'd  give  everything  to  be  back 
in  the  office,  smoking  his  old  cob  pipe, 
with  my  feet  on  the  table  and  Ed  on  the 
other  side,  just  to  hear  him  cuss." 

The  man  stopped  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"Gawd,  but  it's  hot!"  he  said,  and 
left  us.  Lovall  watched  him  silently. 

"Say,  how  about  that  name?"  I 
asked.  "  Who  named  him  '  Cherry- 
beak?'  It's  superb?" 

"  Turner  did  that,"  Lovall  answered. 
"You  don't  remember  him?  He  ran 
'  The  Times '  before  you  came.  He  was 
a  strong  man  and  fearless  as  could  be. 
Somehow  he  inspired  in  this  man  Stew- 
art the  greatest  admiration.  He  gave 
Stewart  a  little  job  in  the  office  one  day, 
and  from  that  he  could  not  rid  himself 
of  the  fellow.  He  made  the  office  his 
162  home, 


" CHERRYBEAK" 

home,  and  worked  only  enough  to  get 
his  meals  and  beer.  Turner  called  him 
'  Cherrybeak,'  and  once  he  tried  to  get 
rid  of  the  man.  Want  to  hear  about  it?" 
And  sitting  there  with  our  legs  out- 
stretched and  our  hats  on  our  knees 
Lovall  told  me  this  thing  about  the  ed- 
itor and  his  admirer. 


It  was  one  Wednesday  afternoon 
that  "Cherrybeak"  rode  up  to  the  Center 
Creek  Settlement  to  visit  with  an  old 
friend  over  Sunday.  He  was  induced  to 
do  this  the  more  readily  since  there  was 
to  be  a  country  horse-race  on  Saturday, 
with  plenty  of  refreshments  to  add  zest 
to  the  occasion.  On  Friday  afternoon 
"The  Times"  was  already  locked  in 
the  forms  and  the  "  devil "  was  inking 
up  the  rollers  and  oiling  the  "  arm  "  of 
the  old  Washington  hand-press.  Tur- 
ner sat  with  his  chair  against  the  desk, 
which  was  heaped  high  with  exchanges, 
proof-sheets  and  government  reports. 
His  thin,  sharp  knees  were  drawn  close 
to  his  chin,  his  hands  clasped  tight 
about  them,  and  he  gazed  absently  into 
the  smoldering  bowl  of  his  pipe. 

Suddenly  his  chair  came  down  to  the 

floor  with  a  great  clattering  noise  and 

163  he 


u 


CHERRYBEAK 


he  arose  erect  with  the  smile  of  a  great 
plan  lighting  up  his  face. 

"Hold  on  there,"  he  called  to  the 
foreman.  "  Hold  her  over  fifteen  min- 
utes. I  have  got  something  else  to  go 
in.  I  nearly  forgot." 

Turner  walked  over  to  the  desk, 
pushed  a  space  clear  with  both  arms 
like  a  man  swimming,  wrote  rapidly  for 
a  few  moments  and  then  handed  the 
slip  of  yellow  paper  to  the  foreman,  who 
read  it  over,  smiled,  and  looked  at  the 
other  quickly. 

"  Aw,  now,  Ed,  what  kind  of  guff  are 
you  givin'  us  here?" 

"  Dead  certain  truth,  so  help  me!  Go 
'long  and  run  it  in  a  prominent  place  — 
near  the  top  of  the  first  local  column." 

The  next  morning  when  the  paper 
appeared  the  public  read  a  strange 
obituary  notice,  with  heavy  black  lines 
at  top  and  bottom. 


DIED 

"Some  time  during  the  past  week, 
William  Stewart,  commonly  known  as 
'  Cherrybeak  Bill.'  '  The  Times '  is  un- 
able to  give  the  particulars,  as  we  have 
just  stopped  the  press  to  notice  his 
164  death. 


"CHERRYBEAK" 

death.  But  we  hope  to  give  further  in- 
formation in  our  next  issue.  Stewart 
in  some  ways  was  unique.  While  not 
a  public  man  to  any  great  extent,  he 
was  very  well  known  in  this  vicinity. 
With  all  his  faults  he  was  a  pretty  good 
fellow,  faithful  to  the  last,  even  in  small 
things,  and  by  some  people  here  he  will 
be  greatly  missed.  Stewart  had  no 
immediate  relatives,  as  far  as  we  have 
been  able  to  ascertain,  but  it  is  safe  to 
say  that  the  whole  community,  espe- 
cially the  business  men  of  the  place, 
will  feel  his  loss." 


The  town  read  the  notice  and  was 
puzzled. 

"Strange,"  said  one;  "I  had  not  heard 
he  was  sick.  I  wonder  what  was  wrong. 
Perhaps  he  tackled  a  job  of  work  and 
couldn't  stand  up  under  the  strain.  Ed 
don't  seem  to  be  long  on  particulars." 

"Well,"  said  another,  "I'll  bet  my 
last  dollar  Pete  Shelly  shut  down  on 
him  and  there  wasn't  any  place  where 
he  could  get  a  drink." 

"  He  was  very  much  alive  Tuesday 

night  when  he  held  me  up  for  the  beer. 

But  Turner  ought  to  know  if  anybody 

does,  as  much  as  if  he  were  his  own 

165  brother. 


u 


CHERRYBEAK 


brother.  I  say,  let's  go  down  and  ask 
him  about  it.  There  is  plenty  of  time 
to  feel  bad  over  it  between  now  and  the 
funeral." 

The  women  of  the  town  talked  it 
over  at  the  sewing  society.  They  re- 
marked at  "the  merciless  dispensa- 
tion of  Providence  toward  the  trans- 
gressor," and  pointed  out  how  it  ought 
to  be  a  lesson  to  the  young  that  every 
preacher  should  employ  on  the  morrow. 
They  discussed  the  funeral,  where  it 
would  be  held,  who  would  preach  the 
sermon,  and  who  possibly  could  be  found 
to  act  as  pall-bearers.  They  talked 
Stewart's  religious  experiences  up  one 
side  and  down  the  other.  Two  years 
before  he  had  been  taken  in  on  proba- 
tion by  the  Methodists,  but  he  slid  back 
to  the  world  and  the  ways  thereof  as 
soon  as  the  winter's  hurrah  was  over 
and  the  praying  sisters'  arms  were 
lifted  from  his  neck.  The  next  winter 
he  was  a  shining  light  in  the  great  Bap- 
tist revival,  but  when  they  refused  to 
baptize  him  right  away,  he  went  off  and 
drowned  his  sorrow  with  a  big  drunk; 
then  he  took  a  turn  with  the  "Shouters," 
straightened  up  for  a  few  days  and  be- 
came a  new  man,  but  as  ever  finally 
drifted  back  to  the  printing-office  and 
166  the 


" CHERRYBEAK" 

the  editorial  tobacco-can.  All  this  the 
women  told  each  other. 

All  afternoon,  too,  people  came  into 
the  printing-office  and  questioned 
Turner. 

"Of  course  I  don't  know  for  certain, 
nor  I  haven't  heard  anybody  say  so. 
I  just  feel  it  —  more  from  something 
'Cherrybeak'  said  himself  last  week. 
It's  a  case  of  mysterious  disappearance. 
He  has  been  gone  half  a  week  now,  and 
from  what  I  know  of ' Cherrybeak'  I  feel 
that  that  is  as  good  as  death.  I  ought 
to  know,  hadn't  I?  Yet  you  can't  rely 
on  '  Cherrybeak.'  He  sometimes  does 
the  most  surprising  and  extraordinary 
things.  Now  just  as  we  are  getting 
accustomed  to  his  becoming  an  angel, 
and  picturing  him  with  wings  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  he  is  likely  to  turn  up 
and  spoil  the  whole  effect.  Just  like 
Bill  exactly. 

"Yes,  'Cherrybeak'  used  to  bother 
me  almost  to  death.  I  felt  kind  of  sorry 
for  the  poor  duffer,  and  let  him  up  here 
one  day  to  ink  the  press  when  the  boy 
was  sick.  That  was  where  I  was  an 
idiot.  He  was  like  the  proverbial  camel. 
He  got  in  and  I  could  n't  kick  the  poor 
devil  out  in  the  street.  I  abused  him, 
and  swore  at  him,  and  almost  drove 

167  him 


"CHERRYBEAK'1 

him  out  like  a  dog.  Say,  just  pass 
that  tobacco,  will  you,  please.  It  has 
lasted  some  since  '  Cherrybeak '  was 
taken  off — yes,  sir,  like  a  dog,  but 
back  he  always  came  with  the  same 
bright,  sweet  smile,  making  up  to  me 
and  trying  to  be  good,  you  know,  and 
to  make  me  happy.  Now,  you  might 
think  it  was  religion,  but  it  wasn't. 
It  was  just  his  make-up  —  that  and 
beer.  He  gave  me  a  sort  of  heathen 
worship,  and  the  more  beer  he  had  in 
him  the  worse  he  became,  and  the  closer 
he  stuck  to  me.  Once  in  a  while,  you 
know,  they  pull  a  ship  into  dry  dock  and 
scrape  off  the  barnacles.  That  was  me 
exactly.  I  used  to  feel  that  I  needed  to 
be  scraped.  Bill  was  my  barnacle,  and 
I  used  to  say  I  would  give  a  life  sub- 
scription to  '  The  Times '  to  the  man 
that  got  him  off  me.  Now  Bill's  gone, 
and  perhaps  in  a  day  or  two  somebody 
will  come  around  and  claim  that  sub- 
scription." 

On  Monday  morning  'Cherrybeak' 
Stewart  drove  up  to  the  saloon,  jumped 
to  the  platform  and  walked  into  the 
place  and  up  to  the  bar  grandly.  "  Beer 
for  the  crowd,"  he  said,  with  a  flourish. 
"  Step  up,  boys;  it's  on  me.  I  won  two 
dollars  on  the  race  Saturday.  Why, 
168  what 


"CHERRYBEAK" 

what  the  devil's  wrong  with  all  you 
fellows?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  answered  the  bar- 
keeper, hastily.  "Here  you  are.  Coming, 
Bill." 

The  drinkers  eyed  him  curiously  over 
the  rims  of  their  glasses.  When  they 
had  drained  the  liquor,  a  big  man  in  a 
leather  coat  and  a  gray  slouch-hat  went 
across  to  the  window  and  took  up  the 
last  weekly  "  Times."  He  folded  it  in- 
side out  and  silently  held  it  before  the 
mystified  Stewart.  Stewart  read  it 
through,  and  then  looked  at  the  crowd 
in  bewilderment.  They  gazed  at  him 
with  the  stolid  stare  of  rough  men  of 
the  West,  for  such  is  their  sense  of 
humor.  He  read  it  a  second  time. 

"It's  a  lie!"  he  suddenly  burst  out, 
and  they  all  smiled.  Then  he  read  it  a 
third  time. 

"Now,  boys,  that  ain't  right,  is  it?" 
he  asked,  appealingly.  "  That  ain't  right 
in  Ed,  is  it?  Now,  is  it? 

"  It's  an  outrage,"  answered  one  of 
the  men,  spurring  Stewart  on.  "Ed 
ought  to  make  reparation.  If  I  were 
you,  I'd  make  him  apologize  and  beg 
forgiveness  and  give  you  a  steady 
job." 

"  Oh,  he  ought  to  make  you  his  part- 
169  ner," 


" CHERRYBEAK" 

ner,"  said  another.  "That  would  square 
things,  wouldn't  it?" 

Thus  worked  upon  by  his  friends, 
Stewart,  turning,  went  out  of  the  saloon 
with  the  paper  still  in  his  hand.  He 
walked  up  the  deserted  little  street  and 
climbed  the  stairs  to  the  newspaper 
office.  The  crowd  from  the  saloon  fol- 
lowed him,  gradually  increasing  as  it 
proceeded.  When  Stewart  entered  the 
office  they  hung  back  about  the  door, 
peering  over  each  other's  shoulders  into 
the  disordered  room  filled  with  press, 
cases  of  type,  and  bundles  of  papers. 

Turner  in  his  shirt-sleeves  wheeled 
about  from  his  desk,  and  running  his 
hand  across  his  hair  faced  "Cherrybeak" 
Stewart. 

"What,  you!  Why,  great  heavens, 
Bill!  How  you  startled  me!  Where  did 
you  come  from?  Sit  down  there,"  push- 
ing him  into  a  chair.  "Not  dead;  well 
that's  too  bad.  Everybody  thought  you 
were,  and  there  has  been  some  great 
betting  going  on  about  it  this  week. 
No,  not  a  word!  Here  is  the  tobacco — 
help  yourself;  and  there's  the  pipe. 
What's  this  you  have  in  your  hand? 
Oh,  that  notice!  How  did  you  like  it? 
Isn't  it  fine?  Doesn't  it  read  well?  Just 
listen  to  this:  The  whole  community — 
170  yes, 


UCHERRYBEAK" 

yes,  yes — feels  his  loss.  Did  you  know 
that,  William?  the  whole  community! 
You  don't  like  it?  Now,  Bill,  after  all 
my  pains  with  it.  You  want  me  to  take 
it  back;  well — yes — I  guess  I  can — of 
course  —  of  course.  I'll  fix  it.  I'll  say 
you  decided  not  to,  had  made  other 
arrangements.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  do  the 
right  thing.  Count  on  Ed  Turner  for 
that.  Only  for  God's  sake  get  out  of 
here  and  don't  show  up  until  it's  done. 
To  do  it  right  I  must  have  it  quiet  here. 
I'll  take  it  all  back,  but  you've  got  to 
clean  out  of  here  and  stay  out  a  week. 
That's  what  you  get  for  fooling  me  this 
way.  Now,  gentlemen,  there's  the  door. 
This  interview  is  ended  for  to-day." 

The  crowd  cleared  out,  taking  Stew- 
art, who  still  held  the  paper,  with  them. 
They  went  on  down  to  the  saloon,  but 
"  Cherrybeak  "  soon  returned,  and  sat 
down  on  the  high  sidewalk  opposite  the 
printing-office,  swinging  his  feet  dis- 
consolately and  gazing  fondly  up  at  the 
moving  forms  within.  All  the  week  he 
sat  there  awaiting  the  apology.  On 
Friday  it  appeared. 


171 


"CHERRYBEAK 


AN  EXPLANATION 

"  In  last  week's  issue  we  stated  that 
William  Stewart  was  dead.  It  appears 
that  we  were  mistaken,  for  '  Cherry- 
beak'  has  been  to  see  us,  and  asserts 
positively  that  he  is  not  dead  and  never 
has  been.  In  justice  to  ourselves,  we 
must  state  the  reason  for  our  belief  as 
to  his  demise.  For  over  a  year  Stewart 
has  owed  us  sundry  sums  of  borrowed 
money.  Two  weeks  ago  he  solemnly 
promised  on  all  that  was  good  and  sa- 
cred that  he  would  come  in  and  pay  us 
on  Thursday  if  he  were  alive.  He  did 
not  show  up  on  the  promised  day,  and 
in  fact  disappeared  twenty-four  hours 
before  Thursday.  Naturally,  we  reached 
the  conclusion  that  he  was  dead,  after 
what  he  had  told  us.  As  Stewart  claims 
we  were  wrong-  and  demands  an  expla- 
nation, we  gladly  make  this  correction, 
acknowledge  with  regret  our  mistake, 
and  announce  that  he  is  still  alive." 


That  evening  the  office-boy  taking 

the  papers  to  the  postoffice  handed  one 

to  the  man  who  sat  on  the  sidewalk 

opposite,  despondently    swinging    his 

172  feet. 


"CHERRYBEAK" 

feet.  It  was  just  light  enough  for  the 
man  to  read  the  explanation  twice.  He 
then  arose  quickly  and  walked  straight 
across  the  street  and  mounted  the  stairs 
that  led  to  the  printing-office. 

The  usual  evening  game  of  seven-up 
between  Turner,  the  foreman,  the  young 
lawyer  of  the  town  and  the  fat  grain- 
man  was  in  progress  across  the  edito- 
rial desk  now  cleared  of  its  debris,  when 
Stewart  burst  into  the  room  and  began 
to  pour  forth  his  thanks  for  such  a  noble 
act.  Turner  arose,  looked  at  the  others 
helplessly  and  then  turned  to  "  Cherry- 
beak." 

"  Now,  Bill,  not  another  word.  Here, 
take  this  dollar  and  celebrate  —  and 
don't  come  back  here  till  Christmas." 
Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  barna- 
cle as  the  editor  pushed  him  out  of  the 
room. 

An  hour  later  strange  noises  broke 
the  stillness  of  the  summer  night  that 
had  settled  over  the  little  town.  Shouts 
and  yells  came  up  from  the  street  be- 
low, and  above  the  uproar  Turner  heard 
some  one  loudly  defending  his  own  name 
against  some  unknown  traducer  and 
proclaiming  rather  incoherently  his 
own  great  and  good  qualities.  Turner, 
shuffling  the  cards,  stopped  to  listen. 
173  "Wait 


"CHERRYBEAK" 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  He  took 
up  his  hat  and  went  out.  Ten  minutes 
passed,  and  then  the  men  heard  him  re- 
turning, but  roughly  guiding  some  one 
up  the  stairs. 

"  Drunk  as  a  lord,  of  course,  you  fool! 
Steady  there.  Ah,  get  up  there  now. 
Here  you  are." 

The  men  saw  the  editor  turn  into  his 
bedroom  adjoining  his  office  and  tip  the 
other  onto  the  bed. 

Turner  straightened  out  the  other's 
feet,  and  then  walking  across  the  room 
took  an  old  overcoat  from  a  nail  in  the 
wall  and  threw  it  gently  over  the  man, 
who  had  sunk  at  once  into  a  dead  sleep. 

"  Suppose  this  means  my  paying  for 
a  room  at  the  hotel  to-night,"  came  half- 
audibly  through  the  open  door  of  the 
sleeping-room.  Turner  had  raised  the 
window,  and  now  came  out  where  the 
game  was  waiting.  He  locked  the  door 
behind  him  and  sat  down. 

"  It's  your  deal,  Jim,"  he  said  to  the 
foreman. 


This  book,  "Over  Grass-Grown  Trails," 
is  printed  for  The  Kiote  Publishing  Co. 
at  The  Lakeside  Press,  Chicago,  June,  igoo 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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